0'  A-' 


,  ♦<;-(/ 


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,  .0,1,0/., 


IMMORTAL  HYMNS 
AND  THEIR  STORY 


cyoj. 


'CC^^^C...K? 


IMMORTAL  HYMNS 
AND  THEIR  STORY 


The  Narrative  of  the  Conception 
and  Striking  Experiences  of  Bless- 
ing attending  the  use  of  some  of 
the  World's  Greatest  Hymns 


BY 


Rev.  Louis  Albert  Banks,  D.D 

Author  of  "  Hero  Tales  from  Sacred  Story," 

"  Christ  and  His  Friends,"  "  White 

Slaves,"  etc.,  etc 


With  portraits^  a)id  illustrations  by  Xorval  Jordan 


CLEVELAND:      tTbe  :«8urco\v6  JSrotbers 
Compang,  publishers,  m  dccc  xcviii 


*35 


Copyright,    1897 

HY 

The  Blkkovvs  Bk(.)Thkks  Co 


AM.    RIGHTS    KKSERVKI) 


Emprrial  jprtss : 

CLEVKLAM). 


To   my  friend 

Dr.  Charles  L.  Bonn  ell 

whose  musical  soul  brings  him  into  felloivsJiip  ivith 

the  singers  of  every  age,  this  volume  is  affectionately 

dedicated  by  the  author 


COXTENTS 

Page 
Jesus^  Lover  of  my  Soul  .  ■      ^9 

Charles  \  \  'esley 

Lead^  kindly  Light  .  .  .  .      ?/ 

John  Henry  Nennnan 

A  bide  icith  Me       .  .  .  .     ^j 

Henry  Franeis  Lyte 

Rock  of  Ages  .  .  .  .  .    ,j ,' 

Align  St  us  J/.    Toplady 

There  is  a  Land  of  fnre  Delight  .  .      6fi 

Isaac    Watts 

From  Greenland' s  ley  Mountains  .  .      jy 

Reginald  Heber 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  Way  .  .  .      8g 

1 1  ^illia  m  Coxvper 

Commit  thou  all  thv  Griefs  .  .    lor 

Paul  Gerhardt 

A  mighty  Fortress  is  our  God      .  .  .    iii 

Martin  Luther 

One  si^'eetly  solemn  Thought         .  .  .    12/ 

Ptuvbe  Cary 

Hoiv  happy  is  the  Pilgrim' s  Lot  .  .  .    ijg 

[oJin  Wesley 


Page 
Guide  vu\  O  thou  great  JeJiovah  .  .    ijj 

Williaiii  Williams 

My  Faith  looks  u(^  to  Thee  .  .    idj 

Ray  Palvier 

li'he/i  Diarshalled  on  tJie  iiigJitly  Plain    .  .    ijy 

Henry  Kirke  White 

A^i'ahe,  my  Son/,  streteh  every  Nerve      .  .    i8g 

Philip  Doddridge 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise         .  .  .   201 

Thomas  ( ^li^ 'ers 

Blest  be  the  'Tie  that  binds  .  .  .   jtj 

John  Fawcett 

Jnst  as  I  am,  i>.<ithont  o)ie  Plea     .  .  .    22^ 

Charlotte  Flliott 

My  Conn  try.'  'tis  of  Thee  .  .  .   2jy 

Samnel  Franeis  Smith 

Come,  than  T'onnt  of  every  Blessing         .  .   2.^tg 

Robert  Robnison 

So7i'  in  the  Morn  thy  Seed  .  .  .   261 

fames  Mo)itgotuery 

Hail!    Thon  onee  despised  fesns  .  .  .   2jj 

fohn  Bakewell 

Nearer,  my  God,  to   Thee  .  .  .   2Sj 

Sarah  Thn^.'er  Adams 

Stand  up.' — stand  np  for  fesns     .  .    2<^j 

George  Dn  ffield 

All  hail  the  Potver  oj' fesns'  Name  .  .  joj 

Edward  Perronet 


PORTRAITS 


Louis  Albert  Tanks,  D.D. 

Page 
Frontispieee 

PJmbe  Gary 

.   126 

Will ia  111  Cinvper    . 

.      88 

Philip  Doddridge 

.    188 

George  Dujfield     . 

.   2g4 

Gharlotte  Elliott   . 

.   224. 

John  Fa7^<cett 

.  212 

Paul  Gerhardt 

.   100 

Reginald  Heber 

.     76 

Martin  Luther 

.   114 

James  Montgomery 

.  260 

John  Henry  AVeioman 

■      JO 

Ray  Palmer 

.   164 

Robert  Robinson    . 

.  248 

Samuel  Franeis  Smith 

.    2j6 

Augustus  Montague  Top  lady 

•  52 

Isaae  Watts 

.  64 

Charles  Wesley 
John  ITesler 
Henry  Kirke  White 
William   Williams 


Page 

.     i8 

.  13S 

.   176 

152 


I L LUSTRA  TIONS 


Page 

3  7 


"  Li't  nil'  to  tJiy  bosom  fiv  " 

"  Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom  "  ^y      ( 

''Abide  loitli  me!  fast  falls  the  eventide"  .  ^2 

''  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me"      .  .  .  jS  ^^ 

"  Could  loe  but  climb  7L'here  Jloscs  stood"  .  68 

''In  vain  i<nth  lavish  kindness 
The  gifts  of  God  are  strozvn; 
The  heathen  in  his  blindness 

Bozos  down  to  zvood  and  stone"         .  .      82 

"  He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea. 

And  rides  upon  the  storm"   .  .  -94 

"  L/e  shall  direct  thy  loandering  feet, 

LLe  shall  prepare  thy  loay  "    .  .  .    106 

"  The  Prince  of  darkness  grim, — 

We  tremble  not  for  him"  .  .  .    120 

"  I  am  nearer  home  to-day. 

Than  L  ever  have  been  before"  .  .    ijo 

'■'■For  me  my  elder  brethren  stay. 
And  angels  beckon  me  azvay"  .  .   144 


Page 
"  Open  tunv  tJic  crysta/  fountain, 

Whoicc  the  /lea/ing  strea)ns  do  flozv  "  .    1^6 

"  Xor  let  me  ever  stray 

From  thee  aside  "        ....    i68 

^'  And,  through  the  storm  and  danger's  thrall. 

It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peaee  "  .  .    1S2 

"  A  cloud  of  loitnesses  around 

Hold  thee  in  full  survey''      .  .  .    ig2 

'■'■  TJic  God  of  Abraham  praise"  .  .   200 

"  When  zee  asunder  part. 

It  gives  us  imoard  pai}i"       .  .  .   216 

'■'Just  as  I  am,  thou  loilt  reeeii'e. 

Wilt  i^'eleome,  pardon,  eleanse,  relieve"  .   2jo 

"  Long  may  our  land  be  bright 

With  freedom's  holy  light  "       .  .  .   2^2 

'•'Prone  to  z^'ander.  Lord,  I  feel  it; 

Prone  to  leave  the  (lod  I  love"  .  .   2J2 

''  So7v  in  the  morn  thy  seed"        .  .  .   266 

"  Help,  ye  bright  angelie  spirits. 

Bring  your  S7i.'eetest,  noblest  lays  "    .  .   2y^ 

"  There  let  the  "u'ay  appear 

Steps  unto  heaven  "    .  .  .  .  284 

"  Stand  up! — stand  up  for  Jesus.' 

'/he  trumpet  call  obey  "  .  .  .  joo 

"  Nozu  shout  in  universal  song. 

The  erozoned  Lord  of  all  "     .  .  .  jo6 


IN   rEMPTATION. 
A  refuge  front  the  storm. —  Isaiah  xxv.,  4. 


CHAh-LES  iVESLKV 


IN  rEMPTATIOA 
MARTYN.  7.  D. 


Simeon  Hutler  Marsh. 
Fine. 


Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  nigh ! 
Hide  me,  O  my  Saviour!  hide, 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past; 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide ; 

O  receive  my  soul  at  last! 

Other  refuge  have  I  none ; 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee! 
Leave,  ah!  leave  me  not  alone. 

Still  support  and  comfort  me ! 
All  my  trust  on  thee  is  stayed ; 

All  my  help  from  thee  I  bring; 
Cover  my  defenseless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  thy  wing! 
19 


•ffmmortal  tjvmus  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 


Wilt  thou  not  regard  my  call? 

Wilt  thou  not  accept  my  prayer? 
Lo!   I  sink,  I  faint,  I  fall: 

Lo!   on  thee  I  cast  my  care! 
Reach  me  out  thy  gracious  hand! 

While  I  of  thy  strength  receive, 
Hoping  against  hope  I  stand, 

Dying,  and  behold  I  live! 

Thou,  O  Christ,  art  all  I  want ; 

More  than  all  in  thee  I  find; 
Raise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint. 

Heal  the  sick,  and  lead  the  blind! 
Just  and  holy  is  thy  name, 

I  am  all  unrighteousness, 
False  and  full  of  sin  I  am, 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

Plenteous  grace  with  thee  is  found, — 

Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin ; 
T^et  the  healing  streams  abound. 

Make  and  keep  me  pure  within. 
Thou  of  life  the  fountain  art ; 

Freely  let  me  take  of  thee ; 
Spring  thou  up  within  my  heart; 

Rise  to  all  eternity. 

— Charles  Wesley. 

Mirny   accounts   are   given    of   tlic  immediate  cir- 
cumstances of  the  writing  of  this,  the  most  famous 

20 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 


of  Charles  Wesley's  hymns,  and  one  of  the  most 
popular  in  the  English  tongue.  One  account  is 
thlt  the  poet  was  standing  one  day  at  a  window, 
when  a  hawk  pursued  a  little  bird  so  closely  that  it 
flew  against  the  pane,  losing  its  fear  of  man  in  the 
greater  danger  which  threatened;  and  Wesley,  open- 
ing the  lattice,  took  it  in  out  of  peril,  and  turned 
away  and  wrote  this  hymn.  This  story  probablx' 
arose  from  the  imagery  of  the  opening  lines  in  the 
first  and  second  verses, — 


and, — 


"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul. 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly;" 

"  Other  refuge  have  I  none." 


It  is  quite  probable,  however,  that  the  hymn  had 
its  inspiration  on  the  sea.  But  a  short  time  before 
writing  it,  Mr.  Wesley  had  narrowly  escaped  ship- 
wreck in  a  storm  on  the  Atlantic,  and  the  words, 
taken  as  a  whole,  seem  to  indicate  that  this  was  the 
vision  before  his  mind.  This  is  peculiarly  true  of 
the  first  verse, — 

"  While  the  nearer  waters  roll. 

While  the  tempest  still  is  nigh!" 

And  again,  in  the  closing  lines, — 

"  Safe  into  the  haven  guide; 
O  receive  my  soul  at  last!  " 

23 


Ilmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stori? 


In  the  third  verse,    which   is  usually  omitted  in 
the  hymnals,  in  the  lines, — 

"  Lol   I  sink,  I  faint,  I  fall! 
1  /      Lol  on  thee  I  cast  my  care! 
1     Reach  me  oiit  thy  gracious  hand! 
\        While  I  of  thy  strength  receive, 
'   Hoping  against  hope  I  stand. 
Dying,  and  behold  I  live  ! ' ' 

there  is  an  unmistakable  reference  to  the  graphic 
imagery  of  Matthew's  story  of  Peter's  attempt  to 
walk  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  which,  to  a  mind  like 
Charles  Wesley's,  would  naturally  be  suggested, 
when  viewing  the  turbulent  waves  from  the^'  c^eck 
of  a  tempest-tossed  sailing  vessel. 

Among  the  interesting  stories  which  show  the 
striking  circiimstances  in  which  this  hymn  has  given 
comfort,  is  this:  On  the  rocky  coast  of  Wales  a 
company  on  shore  were  watching  a  ship  going  to 
pieces  on  the  rocks.  At  last  they  descried,  still 
clinging  to  the  broken  vessel,  a  single  sailor.  There 
was  no  chance  to  save  him,  as  no  boat  could  live  in 
the  rough  sea.  They  brought  a  speaking-trumpet, 
hoping  to  conve  V  to  him  some  message.  They  handed 
it  to  the  old  village  preacher.  He  wondered  what 
to  say.  He  thought  over  his  sermons,  but  could 
think  of  only  one  thing  appropriate  —  but  one  thing 
that  he  dared  to  utter  at  such  a  time.  Raising  the 
trumpet   to   his   lips,    he    shouted,  "Look    to  Jesus! 

24 


ITmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbetr  Stor^ 


Can  you  hear?"  And  back  came  the  faint  answer, 
almost  drowned  by  the  noise  of  the  winds  and 
waves,  "Aye!  aye!  sir."  Then,  as  they  watched 
and  listened,  some  one  exclaimed,  "  He  is  singing!" 
And  to  their  strained  ears  there  came  over  the 
waves  the  murmur  of  the  lines, — 

"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul. 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly.  " 

And  it  thrilled  them  as  again  faintly  they  heard, — 

"  While  the  nearer  waters' roll. 

While  the  tempest  still  is  nigh!" 

Then,  fainter  still, — 

Safe  into  the  haven  guide; 
O  receive  my  soul  at  last!" 

Fainter  yet  came  the  opening  of  the  next  verse, — 

"  Other  refuge  have  I  none; 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee!  " 

Then  his  frail  hold  on  the  broken  wreck  gave  way, 
and  the  singer  dropped  into  the  sea;  while  on  shore 
they  said,  "  He  passed  to  be  with  Jesus  in  the  sing- 
ino-  of  that  hvmn.  " 


25 


THE  PILLAR   OF  CLOUD. 

He  took  not  azcaj'  the  pillar  of  the  cloud  by  day, 
nor  tJic  pillar  of  fire  by  iiig/it,  from  before  the 
people. —  Exodus  xiii.,  22. 


# 


-*%».. 


JOHN  HENHY  .XKH'MAN 


THE  PILLAR  OF  CLOUD. 


LUX  BENIGNA.     10,  4,  10. 


Rev.  John  Bacchts  Dtkes. 


w^^^^i^mm^i^^m 


Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  thou  me  on ; 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home. 

Lead  thou  me  on. 
Keep  thou  my  feet ;   I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on ; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path ;  but  now 

Lead  thou  me  on. 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will :   remember  not  past  years. 


•ffmmortal  iDvmns  an^  tbeir  Stori? 


So  long  thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone. 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 

— JoJin  Henry  Nczvman. 

Cardinal  Newman's  beautiful  hymn  was  the  out- 
come of  a  long  and  painful  mental  and  spiritual 
struggle.  It  is  surely  remarkable  that  a  man  who 
wrote  so  many  books,  and  who  filled  so  large  a 
place  in  the  intellectual  and  religious  life  of  more 
than  two  generations,  should  be  remembered  more 
by  one  hymn  of  three  stanzas  than  on  account  of 
all  else  whatsoever.  The  struggle  through  which 
he  passed  prior  to  entering  into  the  restfulness  siig- 
gested  by  this  hymn  is  described  by  some  other 
verses,  written  but  a  little  earlier :  — 

"  Time  was  I  shrank  from  what  was  right, 
From  fear  of  what  was  wrong; 
I  would  not  brave  the  sacred  fight, 
Because  the  foe  was  strong. 

"  But  now  I  cast  that  finer  sense 
And  sorer  shame  aside; 
Such  dread  of  sin  was  indolence, 
Such  aim  at  heaven  was  pride. 
32 


■^ 

^ 


Hmmortal  Ibvmns  an&  tbeir  Stor\^ 

"  So,  when  my  Saviour  calls,  I  rise. 
And  calmly  do  my  best ; 
Leaving-  to  him,  with  silent  eyes, 
Of  hope  and  fear  the  rest. 

"  I  step,  I  mount,  where  he  has  led; 
Men  count  my  haltings  o'er;  — 
I  know  them ;  yet,  though  self  I  dread, 
I  love  his  precept  more." 

In  June,  1833,  Dr.  Newman  was  sailing  on  the 
Mediterranean,  in  an  orange  boat,  coming  home 
from  Sicil}^  where  he  had  long  been  ill  with  malarial 
fever.  He  says  of  the  voyage  that  he  was  writing 
verses  nearly  the  entire  time  of  the  trip.  On  the  six- 
teenth of  June  the  slow  sailing  boat  of  fragrant 
freight  was  lying  in  the  Straits  of  Bonifacio,  be- 
tween Corsica  and  Sardinia.  They  had  been  be- 
calmed for  a  week;  and  if  any  one  has  ever  been 
becalmed  at  sea  when  anxious  to  get  home,  he  will 
understand  the  great  demand  for  patience  which  is 
made  by  such  an  experience.  "Aching"  to  be  at 
home,  as  he  expressed  it,  having  made  up  his  mind 
as  to  his  future,  and  yet  unable  to  see  the  outcome, 
the  great  preacher-poet  penned  the  verses  of  this 
immortal  hymn. 

If  one  will  re-read  the  hymn,  keeping  in  mind  the 
becalmed  ship,  so  like  his  own  becalmed  mind, 
after  a  long  struggle,  pausing  before  a  tempestuous 

35 


IFmmortal  Ibvmns  an&  tbeir  Storp 


voyage,  it  is  full  of  meanintf  not  discovered  before. 
If  I  were  to  rename  this  hymn,  I  would  call  it 
"  The  Pilgrim  s  Hymn."  I  do  not  know  any  song, 
ancient  or  modern,  that  with  such  combined  tender- 
ness, pathos,  and  faith  tells  the  story  of  the  Chris- 
tian pilgrim  who  walks  by  faith  and  not  by  sight. 
No  doubt  it  IS  this  fidelity  to  heart  experience,  com- 
mon to  us  all,  that  makes  the  hymn  such  a  uni- 
versal favorite.  There  are  dark  nights,  and  home- 
sick hours,  and  becalmed  seas  for  each  of  us,  in 
which  it  is  natural  for  man  to  cry  out  in  Newman's 
words,  — 

"  The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, 
Lead  thou  me  on." 

And  who  of  us  does  not  look  back  on  times  of 
self-will,  when  the  "  garish  day  "  fascinated  ns,  and 
led  us  astray,  and  find  a  very  appropriate  prayer 
and  confession  in  the  line, — 

"  Pride  ruled  my  will:  remember  not  past  years. " 

But  I  apprehend  that  it  is  the  gleam  of  hope  — un- 
dying, invincible  hope — -in  the  last  verse  which  has 
seized  hold  of  the  heart  of  mankind  in  every  land; 
for  whatever  failures  life  may  have  had  for  us,  how- 
ever broken  into  fragments  the  ambitions  of  youth, 
Christ  causes  hope  to  spring  immortal  in  the  human 
breast,  and  a  remembrance  of  Divine  mercy  in  the 

36 


■ffmrnortal  H^vmns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

past  encourages  the  tempted  and  stained  and  travel- 
worn  pilgrim  to  sing, — 

"  So  long  thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone. 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. ' ' 


37 


ABIDE    WITH  ME. 

Abide  with  us:  for  it  is  toicard  cveiiiiig^  and  the 
day  is  far  spent. —  Luke  xxiv. ,  29. 


<. 


^ 


ABIDE  WITH  ME. 


EVENTIDE. 


William  Henry  Monk. 


^liiliilL^^ip^liSiiig 


5^ 


^i^- 


fr 


•p;^ 


i«=ie 


^-r 


^ 


-TT- 


:tK± 


r— r 


Abide  with  me !  fast  falls  the  eventide ; 
The  darkness  deepens ;  Lord,  with  me  abide ! 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  O  abide  with  me ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  oi;t  Life's  little  da}-; 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim;  its  glories  pass  away; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see : 
O  thou,  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me! 

Not  a  brief  glance  I  beg,  a  passing  word. 
But,  as  thou  dwell'st  with  thy  disciples.  Lord, 
Familiar,  condescending,  patient,  free. 
Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide  with  me ! 

Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of  kings. 
But  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in  thy  wings, 
Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every  plea, 
Come,  Friend  of  sinners,  and  thus  'bide  with  me ! 

43 


Ilmmortal  1[D\?mn3  an^  tbeir  Storp 


Thou  on  my  head  in  early  youth  didst  smile; 
And,  though  rebellious  and  perverse  meanwhile, 
Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left  thee, 
On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me! 

I  need  thy  presence  every  passing  hour; 
What  but  thy  grace  can  foil  the  tempter's  power? 
Who  like  thyself  my  guide  and  stay  can  be? 
Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  O  abide  with  me  I 

I  fear  no  foe  with  thee  at  hand  to  bless ; 
Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitterness. 
Where  is  Death's  sting?     Where,  Grave,  thy  vic- 
tory? 
I  triumph  still,  if  thou  abide  with  me ! 

Hold  then  thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes ; 

Shine  through  the   gloom,    and  point  me  to  the 
skies; 

Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  earth's  vain  shad- 
ows flee; 

In  life,  in  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me! 

— //ciiry  Francis  Lytc. 

This  glorious  hymn,  which  has  taken  to  itself 
wings  and  crossed  all  oceans,  transcending  all  the 
boundaries  of  race  and  speech,  and  comforting 
humanity  in  all  lands,  had  a  most  interesting  birth. 
Perhaps  none  of  the  great  hymns  of  the  Christian 
faith  have  a  more  fascinating  story  connected  with 
the  circumstances  of  their  authorship. 

44 


Ilmmortal  Ibvmns  anb  tbeir  Stor\> 

Henry  Francis  Lyte  was  destined  to  make  the 
voyage  of  life  in  a  frail  and  sickly  body,  and  all  his 
life  long  he  had  to  think  of  the  effect  of  climate  and 
surroundings  upon  his  delicate  health.  To  make 
his  case  still  harder,  he  was  always  poor,  and  pover- 
ty and  sickness  wrought  together  in  the  development 
of  his  character;  yet  so  gentle  and  submissive 
was  his  spirit  that  these  afflictions  only  brought  into 
finer  display  the  graces  of  a  Christian  life. 

In  one  of  his  poems,  which  he  says  sprang  from 
"Thoughts  in  Weakness,"  and  which  he  entitles 
"  Submission,"  he  sings  with  spiritual  insight  and 
courage : — 

"  And  shall  I  murmur  or  repine 

At  aught  thy  hand  may  send? 
To  whom  should  I  my  cause  resign, 

If  not  to  such  a  friend? 
Where  love  and  wisdom  deign  to  choose, 

Shall  I  the  choice  condemn, 
Or  dare  the  medicine  to  refuse 

That  is  prescribed  by  them? 

"  As  woods,  when  shaken  by  the  breeze, 

Take  deeper,  firmer  root ; 
As  winter's  frosts  but  make  the  trees 

Abound  in  summer  fruit ; 
So  every  heaven-sent  pang  and  throe 

That  Christian  firmness  tries. 
But  nerves  us  for  our  work  below. 

And  forms  us  for  the  skies. ' ' 

45 


Hmmortal  "ff^vmns  an^  tl^eir  Stor\> 


The  orentle  poet  —  for  he  was  always  more  a  poet 
than  preacher  —  toiled  for  more  than  twenty  years  at 
Brixham,  a  fishing  town,  full  of  hardy  sailors  and 
hard-working,  weather-beaten  fishermen.  He  was 
greatly  devoted  to  his  pastoral  labors,  and  composed 
hymns  to  sing  about  the  fisher's  cottage,  and  to  sing 
from  the  decks  of  their  venturesome  little  boats; 
and  others  for  his  own  comfort  and  consolation. 
Many  of  his  songs,  like  the  one  which  has  made  his 
fame  universal,  are  distilled  from  his  own  heart  ex- 
perience. Where  else  could  a  hymn  like  this  have 
had  its  source?  — 

"  My  spirit  on  thy  care, 

Blest  Saviour,  I  recline ; 
Thou  wilt  not  leave  me  to  despair, 
For  thou  art  love  divine. 

'  In  thee  I  place  my  trust, 
On  thee  I  calmly  rest; 
I  know  thee  good,  I  know  thee  just. 
And  count  thy  choice  the  best. 

"  Whate'er  events  betide. 

Thy  will  they  all  perform ; 
Safe  in  thy  breast  my  head  I  hide, 
Nor  fear  the  coming  storm. 

"  Let  good  or  ill  befall. 

It  must  be  good  for  me ; 
Secure  of  having  thee  in  all, 
Of  having  all  in  thee." 
46 


flmmortal  Ibvmus  an&  tbeir  Stor\) 

But  after  a  while,  though  only  forty-seven  years 
old,  it  was  seen  that  his  brave  fight  against  that  in- 
sidious foe  of  the  human  body,  consumption,  was  in 
vain;  and  that  only  a  radical  change  of  climate 
could  prolong,  even  for  a  little  time,  his  loving  and 
useful  life.  At  this  time  he  was  filled,  as  many  an- 
other has  been  under  similar  circumstances,  with  a 
great  longing  to  use  his  failing  powers  in  some  ser- 
vice for  humanity.  This  longing  is  voiced  with 
wonderful  pathos  in  a  poem  entitled  "  Declining 
Days, ' '  in  which  he  shows  us  the  secret  throbbings 
of  his  gentle  heart :  — 

"  Might  verse  of  mine  inspire 

One  virtuous  aim,  one  high  resolve  impart; 
Light  in  one  drooping  soul  a  hallowed  fire. 
Or  bind  one  broken  heart, 

"  Death  would  be  sweeter  then, 

More  calm  my  slumber  'neath  the  silent  sod; 
Might  I  thus  live  to  bless  my  fellow-men, 
Or  glorify  my  God. ' ' 

Nothing  could  be  more  pathetic  than  the  prayer 
with  which  he  closes  this  poem  in  which  he  unveils 
his  secret  heart :  — 

"  O  thou,  whose  touch  can  lend 

Life  to  the  dead,  thy  quickening  grace  supply ; 
And  grant  me,  swan-like,  my  last  breath  to  spend 
In  song  that  may  not  die. 

47 


Ilmmortal  Ibvmns  an^  tbeir  Stor^ 


The  prayer  of  this  verse,  for  a  swan  song  that 
should  perpetuate  him  in  loving  service  for  his  Mas- 
ter, was  most  graciously  answered.  It  was  in  the 
autumn  when  his  friends  and  physician  insisted  on 
his  going  away  to  a  more  genial  clime,  and  thus 
grasp  the  last  opportunity  for  improved  health.  He 
went  once  more  to  his  pulpit  to  deliver  his  farewell 
sermon  to  his  congregation  of  sobbing,  broken- 
hearted fishermen  and  their  families.  After  ad- 
ministering to  them  the  Lord's  Supper,  he  went 
home  tired  and  worn  in  body,  but  exalted  in  spirit. 
For  the  last  time  the  fire  of  poetic  inspiration  burned 
high  in  his  soul,  and  in  the  light  of  it,  as  the  light 
faded  out  of  the  sky  on  that  Sunday  evening  along 
the  Brixham  Coast,  he  wrote  his  never-dying 
hymn, — 

"  Abide  with  me!  fast  falls  the  eventide." 


48 


A   LIVING  AND  DYING  PRAYER  FOR  THE 

HOLIEST  BELIEVER    IN 

THE    WORLD. 

As  tJic  shadozv  of  a  great  rock  m  a  weary  land. 
—  Isaiah  xxxii.,  2. 


AUGUSTUS  MONTAGUE  TOP  LADY 


A  LIVING  AND  D  YING  PR  A  YER  FOR  THE 

HOLIEST  BELIEVER  IN 

THE  WORLD. 


TOPLADY.      7,   61.  Thomas  Hastings 

h.      I  I*.      ^  Fine. 


cp    a  ^ «*— LL- K — ^ — ^-c 


^^^^^^^u^^ 


Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me. 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee ! 

Let  the  water  and  the  blood, 

From  thy  riven  side  which  flowed. 

Be  of  sin  the  double  cure, 

Cleanse  me  from  its  i^'uilt  and  power. 

Not  the  labour  of  my  hands 
Can  fulfill  thy  law's  demands; 
Could  my  zeal  no  respite  know. 
Could  my  tears  forever  flow. 
All  for  sin  could  not  atone ; 
Thou  must  save,  and  thou  alone. 

Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring; 
Simply  to  thy  cross  I  cling; 


Ilmmortal  Ibvmns  anC)  their  Storp 

Naked,  come  to  thee  for  dress; 
Helpless,  look  to  thee  for  grace; 
Foul,  I  to  the  Fountain  fly; 
Wash  me.  Saviour,  or  I  die. 

"While  I  draw  this  fleeting  breath, 
When  my  eyestrings  break  in  death, 
When  I  soar  through  tracts  unknown, 
See  thee  on  thy  judgment  throne, — 
Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee  I 

— Augustus  Montague'  Foplady. 

Toplady  wrote  this  hymn,  which  vies  with  Charles 
Wesley's  "  Jesus,  Lover  of  My  Soul  "'  in  being  the 
most  universally  popular  hymn  in  the  English 
tongue,  while  dying  of  consumption,  at  thirty-six 
years  of  age.  This  knowledge  makes  especially 
pathetic  the  title  which  he  gave  the  hymn.  His  '•^ 
thought  was  that  the  holiest  person  in  the  world  must 
say  in  his  prayer,  "  Thou  must  save,  and  thou 
alone. " 

Mr.  Gladstone,  easily  the  first  private  citizen  of 
the  world,  has  made  a  version  of  this  hymn  in  Latin, 
and  another  in  Greek.  Many  distinguished  people 
have  used  it  as  a  dying  prayer,  among  whom  was 
Prince  Albert,  the  himented  husband  of  Queen  Vic- 
toria. 

Mrs.  Lucy  Seaman  Bainbridge  tells  the  story  of 
an  old  Chinese  woman,  who  had  sought  to  "  make 
V  54 


■ffmmoi'tal  1l3\}mn5  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

merit"  for  herself  by  digging- with  awful  labor  a 
well  twenty-five  feet  deep  and  some  ten  or  fifteen 
feet  across.  The  poor  old  woman  had  dug  out 
every  inch  of  it  with  her  frail,  weak  hands,  hoping 
by  this  self-torture  to  escape  the  painful  transmigra- 
tions of  the  next  life.  But  all  this  brought  her  no 
peace,  and  she  found  no  rest  for  her  soul  until  she 
learned  of  Christ  and  of  the  free  Gospel  of  salvation. 
She  was  eighty  years  of  age  when  Mrs.  Bainbridge 
saw  her,  but  she  stretched  out  her  crippled  fingers, 
and    with  trembling  voice  sang  with  her  visitor, — - 

"  Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring. 
Simply  to  thy  cross  I  cling." 

When  the  steamship  Lcvidon  was  lost  in  the  Bay 
of  Biscay  in  1866,  the  last  man  who  escaped  said 
that  when  he  left  the  ship  the  passengers  were  sing- 
ing,— 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

A  few  years  ago  a  vessel  was  on  fire  in  New  York 
harbor,  and  before  help  could  come  the  passengers 
were  all  forced  into  the  water.     There  was  on  board 
a  noted   public   singer,  with   his   wife.     Jvr*-   as  he 
was  fastening  a  life  preserver  about  his  wi 
half-crazed  with  fright  rushed  by  and  jerk 
his    grasp.      The    flames    drove    them    in.     • 
into  the   water.      The  man  was  a  strong  swimmer. 


Ilmmortal  IfDvmns  au&  tbeir  Stor\? 


and  by  his  wife  cling-ing  to  his  shoulders  he  man- 
aged to  keep  both  her  and  himself  from  drowning, 
but  at  last  she  said:  "  I  can  hold  on  no  longer.  I 
shall  have  to  give  up."  In  his  awful  agony  the 
husband  grasped  at  the  one  straw  of  hope  that  came 
to  his  mind;  he  said  calmly,  "  Let  us  sing,"  and 
struck  up, — 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me." 

His  wife  joined  him,  and  seemed  to  gain  strength 
from  the  hymn.  There  were  about  them  over  a 
hundred  others  struggling  for  life  in  the  mocking 
glare  of  the  burning  ship,  and  many  of  them  joined 
in  the  song,  until  the  grand  old  anthem  of  trust 
and  confidence  in  the  divine  Savior  went  up  from 
half  a  hundred  throats.  Some  of  them  went  down 
to  rise  no  more,  with  the  precious  words  on  their 
lips;  but  many  others  lived  to  bear  testimony  that 
they  were  given  strength  to  hold  out  by  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  song. 

Toplady  himself  died  in  full  and  joyous  confidence 
in  the  "Rock  of  Ages"  of  which  he  sang.  His 
physician,  examining  him  one  day,  said,  "  Your 
pulse  is  becoming  weaker." 

"  '  is  a  good  sign,"  said  the  poet,  "  that  my 

t   approaching;  and   I  can  add  that  my 

every  day  stronger  and   stronger   for 

And  when  his  phvsician  sought  to  encourage  him 

=^6 


•R(h/c  oj  Ages,  cleft  for  me 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  ant)  tbeir  Stor^ 

to  believe  that  he  would  live  some  time  longer,  he 
replied:  "  No,  no;  I  shall  die,  for  no  mortal  could 
endure  such  manifestations  of  God's  glory  as  I  have 
had,  and  live. " 

His    last    hymn    is   full   of  the   confidence  of  the 
greater  song  which  has  made  his  name  immortal:  — 

"  When  languor  and  disease  invade 
This  trembling  house  of  clay, 
'Tis  sweet  to  look  beyond  my  pains, 
And  long  to  fly  away ; 

"  Sweet  to  look  inward,  and  attend 
The  whispers  of  his  love ; 
Sweet  to  look  upward  to  the  place 
Where  Jesus  pleads  above; 

"  Sweet  to  look  back,  and  see  my  name 
In  life's  fair  book  set  down; 
Sweet  to  look  forward,  and  behold 
Eternal  joys  my  own; 

"  Sweet  to  reflect  how  grace  divine 
My  sins  on  Jesus  laid; 
Sweet  to  remember  that  his  blood 
My  debt  of  suffering  paid ; 

"  Sweet  to  rejoice  in  lively  hope. 

That,  when  my  change  shall  come, 
Angels  shall  hover  round  my  bed, 
And  waft  my  spirit  home. 
59 


11  minor ta I  IfD^mns  auD  tbeir  Storp 


If  such  the  sweetness  of  the  stream, 

What  must  the  fountain  be, 
Where  saints  and  angels  draw  their  bliss 

Directly,  Lord,  from  thee." 


60 


A    PROSPECT   OF  HEAVEN  MAKES 
DEATH  EASY. 

For  he  looked  for  a  city  tvJiicJi  hath  foundations^ 
whose  builder  and  maker  is  God. —  Hebrews  xi.,  lo. 


.■j^^A 


ISAAC  IVATTS 


A  PROSPECT  OF  HEAVEN  MAKES 
DEATH  EASY. 


VARINA.     C.  M. 


JouANN  Christian  Heinkich  Rink. 


i*=bs 


sl^^ii 


m--—m _ m m       -m--—m m „ rm  .  m     m — *-r^— 


?E^E5=2EBE^^ 


ifiEt=— Etz 


• \ 


=p^ 


^^. 


t^trA'^ 


— ^ — I- 


i^^iSiili^ 


l^ig^i^; 


:e  Iff: :  e  * 

-f rl» 1^ 1 


Ib^z 


-8—^ 


^^=^1 


There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 
Where  saints  immortal  reign, 

Infinite  day  excludes  the  night, 
And  pleasures  banish  pain. 

There  everlasting  spring  abides, 
And  never-withering  flowers; 

Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides 
This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 

Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  dressed  in  living  green : 

So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood, 
While  Jordan  rolled  between. 
65 


Hmmovtal  If^vmns  an&  tbcir  Ston: 

Hut  timorous  mortals  start  and  shrink 

To  cross  this  narrow  sea, 
And  lint^cr  sliiverin;;-  on  the  brink, 

And  fear  to  launch  a\va\-. 

Oh,  could  we  make  our  doubts  remove, 
These  gloomy  doubts  that  rise. 

And  see  the  Canaan  that  we  love 
With  unbechnided  eyes, — 

Could  we  but  climl)  where  Moses  stood, 
And  view  the  landscape  o'er, — 

Not  Jordan's  stream  nor  death's  cold  flood 
vShould  friiL^ht  us  from  the  shore! 

—  /sane  Watts. 


During  the  reign  of  tlic  second  Stuart,  a  Puritan 
dissenter  of  Southampton,  l'>ngland,  was  confined 
in  jail  because  of  his  faith.  This  heroic  young 
Christian  had  a  beautiful  wife  who  used  to  come  to 
the  jail  every  day,  with  her  baby  bo)-  in  her  arms, 
and  spend  hours  in  singing  for  the  comfort  of  her 
husband.  That  little  bal)e  was  Isaac  Watts,  and  he 
seems  to  have  inherited  his  mother's  love  of  music. 

When  young  AVatts  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  he 
became  greatly  disgusted  with  the  ungraceful  and 
ugly  rhymes  which  were  used  in  the  church  where 
he  attended.  Hn  a  Sunday  morning  when  the  sing- 
ing had  been  worse  than  usual,  the  boy  stepped  up 
to  one  of  the  church  ot'ticials  and  exjjressed  his  con- 

00 


^ 


3^^ 


;Mai>-'' 


•ffmmortal  IF^vmns  an&  tbeiv  Stor^ 


tempt  for  the  miserable  doggerel.  In  those  days 
youngsters  were  expected  to  keep  silent  in  regard 
to  such  matters,  and  the  church  elder  sternly  re- 
garded him,  and  said:  "Give  us  something  better 
then,  young  man!  "  The  disgusted  lad  went  home 
and  set  himself  to  work  to  accept  the  challenge. 
Before  sunset  he  had  written  a  hymn  which  was 
lined  off  and  sung  at  the  evening  service.  The  first 
verse  was  as  follows :  — 

"  Behold  the  glories  of  the  Lamb, 
Amidst  his  father's  throne; 
Prepare  new  honors  for  his  name 
And  songs  before  unknown." 

He  was  sitting,  one  spring  day,  at  his  window  in 
Southampton,  looking  out  across  the  river  Itchen. 
Beyond  the  narrow  river  was  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
marvelously  picturesque  and  beautiful  in  the  full 
glory  of  its  spring  coloring.  It  was  one  of  those 
lovely  days  when  there  is  gladness  in  simply  being 
alive,  and  as  he  drew  in  the  fresh  air,  and  his  eyes 
feasted  on  the  beauties  of  harbor  and  river,  and  field 
and  forest,  his  thought  led  him  on  to  consider  that 
if  God  had  made  so  beautiful  this  world  in  which 
we  were  to  spend  so  short  a  period,  how  much  more 
glorious  must  be  the  heavenly  world  which  is  to  be 
the  scene  of  an  immortal  career.  To  Isaac  "Watts 
ever}'  such  conception  naturally  crystallized  into 
song,  and  he  soon  embodied  the  beautiful  thought 

69 


Ilmmortal  H^^inus  anD  tbeir  Storv? 


into  the  sweetest  of  all  his  hymns.  As  we  read  it 
with  this  story  of  its  birth  in  our  mind,  the  imagery 
which  inspired  it  is  constantly  recalled, — 

"  There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 
Where  saints  immortal  reign, 
Infinite  day  excludes  the  night, 
And  pleasures  banish  pain." 

And  as  the  hymn  proceeds,  the  picture  from  the 
poet's  window  reappears  throughout  the  verses, — 

"  There  everlasting  spring  abides. 
And  never-withering  flowers; 
Death,  like  a  narrow  sea.  divides 
This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 

"  Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  dressed  in  living  green : 
So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood, 
While  Jordan  rolled  between." 

It  is  related  that  during  the  Crimean  War,  on  a 
bitterly  cold  night,  a  poor  soldier  was  suffering  such 
agonies  from  hunger  and  cold  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  commit  suicide,  and  thus  seek  to  end  his 
sufferings,  when  suddenly  he  heard  a  voice  sing- 
ing,— 

"  There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight." 

The  hymn  inspired  him  with   hope,  and  he  called 

70 


IFmmortal  1f3^mns  an^  tbeir  Stor\2 

out  loudly.  The  sing-er,  a  <(ood  man  who  had  lost 
his  way  in  the  storm  and  was  cheerinj^  himself  on 
his  lonely  journey  by  sinj^inj;',  heard  him,  and  made 
his  way  to  him  throu^^h  the  snow.  He  proved  a 
friend  in  need  to  the  despairing  soldier. 

Many  a  soul  has  stood  with  Isaac  Watts  on  the 
mount  of  spiritual  vision  under  the  inspiration  of 
the  last  verse  of  his  great  hymn, — 

"  Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 
And  view  the  landscape  o'er, — 
Not  Jordan's  stream  nor  death's  cold  flood 
Should  friirht  us  from  the  shore  I  " 


71 


MISS  I  ox  A  RV  //  ]  'JA.Y. 

Go  j'c  i)ito  all  tlic  i^'orld,  and  prcacJi  the  gospel  to 
every  creature. —  ]\Iark  xvi.,  15. 


KEGINAI.n  IIF.HER 


MISSIONARY  HYMN. 


MISSIONAHY  HYMN.     7,  6. 


Lowell  Mason. 


35E: 


ggi 


til±S: 


^^^^ 


W^ 


tt 


■-SI — ^- 


-5^r 


m^ 


'^^^^^^.a:. 


si^^i^^piii^^^i^igi 


From  Greenland's  icy  mountains, 

From  India's  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 

Roll  down  their  golden  sand, 
From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a  palmy  plain. 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error's  chain. 


What  though  the  spicy  breezes 
Blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  isle, — 

Though  every  prospect  pleases, 
And  only  man  is  vile? 

77 


Ilmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 


In  vain  with  lavish  kindness 
The  gifts  of  God  are  strown; 

The  heathen  in  his  blindness 
Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 

Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  on  high, 
Can  we  to  men  benighted 

The  lamp  of  life  deny? 
Salvation,  O  salvation! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim. 
Till  each  remotest  nation 

Has  learnt  Messiah's  name. 

Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  his  story, 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll. 
Till  like  a  sea  of  glory 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Till  o'er  our  ransomed  nature 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain. 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign. 

— Ri\iiiii<i/</  I  fiber. 

Very  rarely  indeed  does  one  who  performs  great 
deeds  know  the  value  of  his  work  at  the  time.  The 
greatest  work  men  accomplish  is  not  the  deed  that 
is  done  in  the  spirit  of  labor,  but  ratlicr  tliat  wliich 
is  performed  in  a  buoyant  spirit  whicli  makes  it  a 
work  of  love.      The  greatest   poems  have  been  writ- 


Ifmmortal  Ib^mns  an^  tbeir  Storv? 

ten  tinder  the  inspiration  of  an  occasion,  and  their 
author  has  not  dreamed  that  in  them  was  his  own 
title  to  immortality. 

Reginald  Heber,  the  poet-bishop  of  India,  was 
as  yet  only  the  rector  of  an  Episcopal  church  in 
Shropshire,  England.  He  was  but  thirty-six  years 
old,  and  was  on  a  visit  to  his  father-in-law,  a  certain 
Dr.  Shipley,  vicar  of  Wrexham,  on  the  border  of 
Wales.  The  vicar  had  invited  his  son-in-law  to  de- 
liver the  first  of  a  series  of  Sunday  evening  mission- 
ary lectures  in  his  church.  It  was  Saturday  after- 
noon, and  the  poet-preacher  sat  in  the  parlor  with 
his  father-in-law  and  a  few  friends,  enjoying  a 
pleasant  conversation.  Suddenly  Dr.  Shipley,  re- 
membering the  young  man's  gift  of  verse-making, 
turned  to  him  and  said,  "  Reginald,  write  some- 
thing for  us  to  sing  at  the  service  to-morrow." 
Heber  immediately  excused  himself  and,  drawing 
his  chair  to  another  part  of  the  room,  began  to 
scribble  on  a  little  slip  of  paper.  The  Dean  and  his 
friends  went  on  conversing.  When  there  came  a 
lull  in  the  conversation,  the  host  turned  to  his  son- 
in-law,  and  noting  that  he  seemed  to  be  meditating 
on  what  he  had  already  composed,  inquired:  "  What 
have  you  written?"  Heber  had  then  completed 
the  first  three  verses,  and  read  them  over.  Dr. 
Shipley  listened,  and  coolly  replied,  when  the  read- 
ing ceased,  "  There,  there,  that  will  do  very  well." 

"  No,  no;  the  sense  is  not  complete,"  replied  the 

79 


IFmmortal  Ibvmns  an&  tbeir  Stori? 

poet ;  and  he  proceeded  to  add  the  fourth  verse, 
which  has  been  the  buttle -blast  of  missions  ever 
since, — 

"  Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  his  story, 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll. 
Till  like  a  sea  of  glory 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole; 
Till  o'er  our  ransomed  nature 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign." 

Heber  was  anxious  to  add  another  verse,  and 
pleaded,  "  Let  me  add  another!  O  let  me  add  an- 
other! "  But  his  father-in-law  would  not  hear  to  it, 
and  declared  another  verse  would  spoil  it;  and  so 
the  hymn  was  left  just  as  we  have  it  now,  except 
the  alteration  of  a  single  word.  The  seventh  line 
of  the  second  verse  was,  — 

"  The  sa^ui^^r  in  his  blindness." 

The  author  erased  the  word  "  savage  "  and  substi- 
tuted for  it  the  more  appropriate  word  "  heathen." 
The  hymn  was  printed  on  the  same  evening  it  was 
written,  and  was  sung  the  next  morning  in  the 
Wrexham  church.  As  another  has  well  said,  little 
did  the  young  English  rector  dream,  as  he  listened 
to  his  lines  sung  that  Sabbath  morning,  that  he  was 

So 


i;"^ 


■^ 


?  § 

^o^ 


^  § 


•s.    's 


2^ 


5^ 


K 


•ffmmortal  1b\?mns  anb  tbeir  Story 

catching  the  first  strains  of  his  own  immortality. 
That  trumpet  hymn  is  the  martial  music  to  which 
Christ's  hosts  "  keep  step  "  as  they  advance  to  the 
conquest  of  the  globe. 

Heber  lived  but  seven  years  after  the  composi- 
tion of  his  masterpiece.  In  June,  1823,  he  left  Eng- 
land for  Calcutta,  as  the  Missionary  Bishop  of  India. 
There  is  a  very  interesting  passage  in  his  Jourfial 
of  a  Voyage  to  India,  printed  long  after  his  death, 
in  which  he  comments  on  the  beautiful  lines  in  the 
second  verse  of  his  great  hymn, — - 

"  What  though  the  spicy  breezes 
Blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  isle." 

Under  date  of  September  23,  1823,  he  writes: 
"  Though  we  were  now  too  far  off  Ceylon  to  catch 
the  odors  of  the  land,  yet  it  is,  we  are  assured,  per- 
fectly true  that  such  odors  are  perceptible  to  a  very 
considerable  distance.  In  the  Straits  of  Malacca,  a 
smell  like  that  of  a  hawthorne  hedge  is  commonly 
experienced;  and  from  Ceylon  at  thirty  or  forty 
miles,  under  certain  circumstances,  a  yet  more 
agreeable  scent  is  inhaled. ' ' 

Heber  had  the  true  missionary  spirit,  and  his 
hymn  was  but  the  outflow  of  his  heart's  feeling.  It 
was  true  of  him  that  he  could  not  — 

"     .      .      .      .     to  men  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny. ' ' 
83 


Hmmortal  Ibi^mns  an^  tbeir  Stor\> 

One  of  the  most  interesting  occasions  connected 
with  the  singing  of  this  hymn  was  that  of  a  revival 
of  religion  on  the  United  States  Frigate  North  Caro- 
lina, in  1858.  A  number  of  converted  sailors  were 
one  day  comparing  nationalities,  and  found  that 
they  came  from  ten  different  countries;  and  when 
the  last  man  stated  that  he  had  been  born  in  Green- 
land, one  of  the  others  began  to  sing, — 

"  From  frreenland's  icy  mountains," 

all  joining  in  the  song  with  tearful  joy. 


84 


LIGHT  SHINING   OUT  OF  DARKNESS. 

Verily^    thou    art    a    God   that    hides t     thyself. — 
Isaiah  xlv. ,  15. 


WlLl.lAM  CO  IV PER 


LIGHT  SHINING  OUT  OF  DARKNESS. 


MANOAH.     C.  M. 


From  Mehul  and  Haydn. 


God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way, 

His  wonders  to  perform ; 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill 
He  treasures  up  his  bright  designs. 

And  works  his  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take ; 

The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 

In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 
But  trust  him  for  his  grace ; 

89 


Hmmortal  1b\?mns  an^  tbcir  Stor^ 


Behind  a  frowning  providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  every  hour; 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 

And  scan  his  work  in  vain; 
God  is  his  own  interpreter. 

And  he  will  make  it  plain. 

—  Williavi  Coivper. 

James  T.  Fields,  the  Boston  litterateur,  the  com- 
panion of  poets  all  his  life,  declared  that  to  be  the 
author  of  such  a  hymn  as  this  masterpiece  of  Cow- 
per  was  an  achievement  that  "  angels  themselves 
might  envy. 

William  Cowper  was  a  man  who  went  through  life 
with  a  broken  heart.  In  early  life  he  formed  a 
very  deep  attachment  for  his  cousin,  a  lovely  young 
woman,  to  whom  he  gave  all  his  heart's  affection; 
they  were  engaged  to  be  married,  but  their  imion 
was  made  impossible  by  the  action  of  his  father. 
This  deep  disappointment  was  supposed  to  have 
been  largely  the  cause  of  the  melancholy  under  the 
heavy  shadow  of  which  he  spent  many  years  of  his 
long  life.  He  was  one  of  those  gentle,  sensitive 
soiils  to  whom  heartbreak  is  possible.  This  fine- 
go 


irmmortal  Ibvinns  an^  tbeir  Stow 


ness  of  spirit  is  very  beautifully  illustrated  in  his 
affection  for  his  mother.  It  was  his  great  misfor- 
tune to  lose  her  by  death  when  he  was  but  a  child 
five  years  of  age.  When  he  was  nearly  sixty  years 
a  picture  of  her  was  sent  him  by  a  friend.  On  look- 
ing at  it  all  his  childish  memories  were  revived,  and 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  poems  is  that  on  his 
"  Mother's  Picture."  What  could  be  more  charm- 
ing than  this  verse !  — 

Oh,  that  those  lips  had  language!  life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine:  thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, — 
■     The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me." 

He  wrote  to  the  friend  who  had  afforded  him  so 
much  pleasure  by  sending  him  the  picture:  "  I  had 
rather  possess  my  mother's  pictiire  than  the  richest 
jewel  in  the  British  crown ;  for  I  loved  her  with  an 
affection  that  her  death,  fifty  years  since,  has  not  in 
the  least  abated. " 

The  heavy  gloom  of  threatened  insanity  was  the 
inspiration  of  many  of  his  songs.  The  last  poem 
he  ever  wrote,  "  The  Castaway,"  is  perhaps,  under 
all  the  circumstances,  one  of  the  most  heartbreaking 
ever  composed.  The  poet  had  been  reading  in  An- 
son's J'oj'd^rs,  the  story  of  a  man  lost  overboard  in 
a  storm.  In  graphic  verse  he  tells  of  the  hapless 
fate  of  the  poor  sailor,  and  then  paints  his  own  fate 
in  darker  colors  :  — 

91 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  ant>  tbeir  Story 

No  poet  wept  him;  but  the  page  of  narrative  sin- 
cere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his   worth,    his  age,  is  wet 
with  Anson's  tear; 

And  tears,  by  bards  or  heroes  shed, 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

"  I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream  descanting  on 
his  fate. 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme  a  more  enduring 
date ; 

But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

"  No  voice  Divine  the  storm  allayed,  no  light  propi- 
tious shone, 
When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid,  we  perished 
each  alone ; 

But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea. 

And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  hel  " 

The  melancholy  which  had  cast  such  a  shadow 
over  his  early  manhood  had  been  for  a  long  time 
largely  lightened.  For  seven  years  he  had  been 
comparatively  cheerful.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  the 
anguish  with  which  he  detected  the  return  of  that 
shadow,  worse  than  death.  As  these  black  clouds 
of  despair  gathered  about  him  again,  threatening  to 
shut  out  the  light  of  hope,  he  came  to  believe  that 
it  was  the    Divine   will   that  he  should  go  to  a  par- 

92 


•^  ^ 


■<i^. 


•ffmmortal  Ibvmns  anb  tbeir  Stor^ 


ticular  part  of  the  river  Ouse,  and  drown  himself. 
Fortunately,  the  driver  of  the  post-chaise  missed 
his  waj',  and  he  was  thus  diverted  from  his  purpose. 
On  his  return  home  he  wrote  this  splendid  hymn,  — 

"  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way, 
His  wonders  to  perform; 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
And  rides  upon  the  storm. ' ' 

It  was  surely  a  wonderful  triumph  of  faith  that  could 
inspire  the  afflicted  poet,  under  such  circumstances, 
to  send  forth  such  strains  of  good  cheer,  — 

"  Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense. 
But  trust  him  for  his  grace ; 
Behind  a  frowning  providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face." 

This  sweet  hymn  of  providence  has  been  a  God- 
given  "  song  in  the  night  "  to  millions  of  tried  and 
troubled  souls  all  around  the  globe.  During  the 
terrible  famine  in  Lancashire,  England,  the  work 
ran  low  at  one  of  the  great  cotton  mills.  Occupa- 
tion and  wages  grew  less  day  by  day.  At  length 
the  overseer  met  the  half-starved  operatives  and  an- 
nounced to  them  the  fatal  tidings,  "  There  is  no 
more  work."  As  their  glimmering  hopes  went  out 
in  the  darkness  of  despair,  a  delicate,  sweet  girl, 
herself  pale  and  worn  with  insufficient  food,  stood 

95 


Ilmmortal  Ib^mns  ant)  tbeir  Stor^ 


up  in  the  midst  of  the  despairing  company  and  be- 
gan to  sing  the  trustful  words  from  Cowper's 
hymn,  — 

"  Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take; 
The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 
In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 

And  scan  his  work  in  vain; 
God  is  his  own  interpreter. 

And  he  will  make  it  plain." 

The  sentiment  of  the  song,  given  magnetic  power 
by  the  pure  personality  of  the  young  girl,  brought 
hope  to  the  hearts  of  both  employers  and  working 
people.  The  hymn  proved  a  prophecy.  The  pro- 
prietors determined  to  struggle  on  for  a  while  longer, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  the  mill  was  running 
again  on  full  time,  and  there  was  work  and  plenty 
for  all. 


96 


GERHARDT'S  HYMN  OF  TRUST. 

Covniiit  thy  zoay  unto  the  Lord;  trust  also  in  him; 
and  he  shall  bri}ig  it  to  pass.  —  Psalm  xxxvii.,  5. 


PAUL  GRKHAKDT 


GERHARD T'S  H\ 'MN  OF  TR US T. 


SCHUMANN.     S.  M, 


RoBEltT  SClll'MANN. 


Commit  thou  all  thy  j^-riefs 
And  ways  into  his  hands, 

To  his  sure  trust  and  tender  care 
Who  earth  and  heaven  commands. 

Who  points  the  clouds  their  course, 
Whom  winds  and  seas  obey, 

He  shall  direct  thy  wandering  feet, 
He  shall  prepare  thy  way. 

Thou  on  the  Lord  rely, 

So,  safe,  shalt  thou  g-o  on; 

Fix  on  his  work  thy  steadfast  eye, 
So  shall  thy  work  be  done. 

No  profit  canst  thou  gain 

By  self-consuming  care; 
To  him  commend  thy  cause ;  his  ear 

Attends  the  softest  prayer. 


flmmortal  1b\?mn5  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

Thy  everlasting  truth, 

Father,  thy  ceaseless  love. 
Sees  all  thy  children's  wants,  and  knows 

What  best  for  each  will  prove. 

Thou  everywhere  hast  sway, 
And  all  things  serve  thy  might; 

Thy  every  act  pure  blessing  is. 
Thy  path  unsullied  light. 

Give  to  the  winds  thy  fears, 

Hope,  and  be  undismayed; 
God  hears  thy  sighs  and  counts  thy  tears; 

God  shall  lift  up  thy  head. 

Through  waves,  and  clouds,  and  storms. 

He  gently  clears  thy  way; 
Wait  thou  his  time,  so  shall  this  night 

Soon  end  in  joyous  day. 

Still  heavy  is  thy  heart? 

Still  sink  thy  Spirits  down? 
Cast  oflf  the  weight,  let  fear  depart, 

And  every  care  be  gone. 

What  though  thou  rulest  not, 
Yet  heaven  and  earth  and  hell 

Proclaim:   ''  God  sitteth  on  the  throne, 
And  ruleth  all  things  well." 

Leave  to  his  sovereign  sway 
To  choose  and  to  command : 


IFmmortal  1l3\>nm5  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

So  shalt  thou,  wondering,  own  his  way, 
How  wise,  how  strong  his  hand! 

Far,  far  above  thy  thought 
His  counsel  shall  appear. 
When  fully  he  the  work  hath  wrought 
That  caused  thy  needless  fear. 

— Paul  Gcrltardt. 
(  Translated  by  John  Wcslcv. ) 

The  sweet  story  of  Christian  trust  and  confidence 
out  of  which  this  hymn  was  born  is  of  the  greatest 
interest.  The  story  has  been  denied  by  some  recent 
writers,  but  as  it  is  still  relied  upon  by  the  majority 
of  German  Christians,  is  borne  out  b}-  the  hymn  it- 
self, and  is,  above  all,  good  enough  to  be  true,  I 
think  it  well  to  let  it  go  on  its  way  of  comfort  and 
good  cheer. 

In  1666,  Paul  Gerhardt,  who  had  been  pastor  of 
the  Nicholai  Church  at  Berlin,  was  removed  from 
his  place  on  account  of  his  firm  adherence  to  the 
Lutheran  doctrines.  He  had  been  pastor  there  for 
ten  years,  and  it  was  with  the  tenderest  sorrow  that 
he  went  into  exile.  He  had  a  lovely  and  amiable 
wife,  and  his  trials  were  greatly  increased  because 
his  reverses  deprived  her  of  the  comforts  and  lux- 
uries to  which  she  had  been  accustomed.  Driven 
from  the  country  by  the  order  of  the  king,  he  turned 
his  face  toward  Saxony,  which  was  his  native  land. 
vSo  reduced  in  circumstances  was  he  at  the  time  that, 


■flmmortal  Ibpmns  auO  tbeir  Storp 

accompanied  by  his  wife,  he  undertook  the  journey 
on  foot.  One  day,  as  evening  drew  near,  they 
turned  aside  from  the  highway  to  seek  rest  and  food 
in  a  little  village  inn.  The  wife  of  the  poet  was  so 
overcome  with  sorrow  that  she  gave  way  to  sobs  and 
tears  of  anguish.  Gerhardt's  own  heart  was  heavy, 
but  concealing  as  best  as  he  could  his  own  sorrow,  he 
quoted  to  her  the  beautiful  promise  of  the  Psalmist : 
"Trust  in  the  Lord;  in  all  thy  ways  acknowledge 
him,  and  he  shall  direct  thy  paths. "  And  as  the 
tears  still  flowed,  he  added  still  another  quotation : 
"  Commit  thy  way  unto  the  Lord;  trust  also  in 
him;  and  he  shall  bring  it  to  pass.  And  he  shall 
bring  forth  thy  righteousness  as  the  light,  and  thy 
judgment  as  the  noonday." 

Though  these  Scriptures  did  not,  at  the  time, 
bring  the  comfort  he  desired  to  the  heart  of  his 
wife,  Gerhardt  received  the  blessing  which  often 
comes  to  those  who  are  trying  to  help  others,  in 
that  his  own  heart  was  greatly  soothed  and  encour- 
aged by  the  Scriptures  he  had  quoted.  Passing  into 
a  little  garden  connected  with  the  inn,  he  paused  in 
an  arbor  for  prayer.  His  devotions  roused  his  soul 
to  poetic  flight,  and  with  the  Scripture  he  had 
quoted  to  his  wife  still  in  his  thought,  he  took  a  slip 
of  paper  from  his  pocket  and  began  writing  his 
famous  "  Hymn  of  Trust,"  which  gains  new  inter- 
est as  we  read  it  in  the  light  of  this  stor}-,  — 

104 


^ 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  anC>  tbeir  Stor^ 

"  Commit  thou  all  thy  griefs 
And  ways  into  his  hands, 
To  his  sure  trust  and  tender  care 
Who  earth  and  heaven  commands. 

"  Who  points  the  clouds  their  course, 
Whom  winds  and  seas  obey, 
He  shall  direct  thy  wandering  feet. 
He  shall  prepare  thy  way." 

Having  written  the  first  eight  verses,  he  returned 
to  the  inn  to  find  his  wife  still  prostrated  by  her 
grief.  Deeply  impressed  by  the  sight,  he  sat  down 
in  another  part  of  the  room  and  composed  the  four 
remaining  stanzas, — 

"  Still  heavy  is  thy  heart? 

Still  sink  thy  spirits  down? 
Cast  off  the  weight,  let  fear  depart, 
And  every  care  be  gone. 

"  What  though  thou  rulest  not, 
Yet  heaven  and  earth  and  hell 
Proclaim :   '  God  sitteth  on  the  throne 
And  ruleth  all  things  well.' 

"  Leave  to  his  sovereign  sway 
To  choose  and  to  command. 
So  shalt  thou,  wondering,  own  his  way, 
How  wise,  how  strong  his  hand! 


llmmortal  Ib^mns  anO  tbeir  Storg 


"  Far,  far  above  thy  thought 
His  counsel  shall  appear, 
When  fully  he  the  work  hath  wrought 
That  caused  thy  needless  fear." 

Late  that  evening,  as  Gerhardt  and  his  wife  were 
conversing  together  in  the  little  parlor  of  the  inn, 
two  belated  travelers  came  in,  and  after  some  gen- 
eral conversation  remarked  incidentally  that  they 
were  going  to  Berlin  to  see  Paul  Gerhardt,  the  de- 
posed minister.  Madame  Gerhardt  was  greatly 
alarmed,  fearing  that  some  new  calamity  was  about 
to  befall  them ;  but  her  husband  immediately  an- 
swered, "I  am  Paul  Gerhardt."  One  of  the  gen- 
tlemen then  handed  him  an  autograph  letter  from 
Duke  Christian  of  Merseburg,  which  informed  him 
that  a  pension  had  been  settled  upon  him  for  life, 
and  invited  him  to  make  that  city  his  home.  Ger- 
hardt, in  the  great  joy  of  the  occasion,  quietly 
turned  to  his  wife,  and  handed  her  the  hymn  he 
had  composed  earlier  in  the  evening,  when  all  was 
so  dark  and  seemingly  so  hopeless.  "  See,"  said  the 
poet,  "  how  God  provides!  Did  I  not  bid  you  con- 
fide in  him  and  all  would  be  well?  " 

One  of  the  most  interesting  and  historic  occasions 
on  which  this  hymn  has  been  used,  was  on  the  first 
march  of  the  Woman's  Crusade,  at  Hillsboro,  Ohio. 
The  women  had  met  in  a  little  church,  and  decided 
to  go  out   into   the   town   and   talk  with  the  liquor 

loS 


Hmmortal  1b\?mn5  an&  tbeir  Storp 

dealers,  and  tr}'  to  persuade  them  to  cease  selling 
a  beverage  that  caiised  so  much  sorrow  and  mis- 
ery. When  they  were  ready  to  start  they  fell  into 
line,  two  and  two,  the  shorter  women  marching  at 
the  head  and  the  taller  bringing  up  the  rear.  As 
they  began  their  march,  they  commenced  singing  a 
stanza  of  Gerhardt's  hymn, — 

"  Give  to  the  winds  thy  fears; 
Hope,  and  be  undismayed; 
God  hears  thy  sighs  and  counts  thy  tears ; 
God  shall  lift  up  thy  head." 

And  as  they  passed  down  into  the  street  these  pi"o- 
phetic  words  floated  out  on  the  air,  borne  on  the 
wings  of  their  reverent  song, — 

"  Far,  far  above  thy  thought 
His  counsel  shall  appear. 
When  fully  he  the  work  hath  wrought 
That  caused  thv  needless  fear." 


109 


GOD,  A  MIGHTY  FORTRESS. 

God  is  our  refuge  a)id  strength^  a  very  present  help 
in  tro7ible. —  Psalm  xlvi.,  i. 


MARTIN  J.UTHER 


GOD,  A  MIGHTY  FORTRESS. 


FORTRESS.     8,  7,    6. 


Martin  Luther. 


A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God, 
A  bulwark  never  failing; 

Our  helper  he  amid  the  flood 
Of  mortal  ills  prevailing,      j 

For  still  our  ancient  foe 

Doth  seek  to  work  us  woe ; 

His  craft  and  power  are  great ; 

And,  armed  with  cruel  hate, 
On  earth  is  not  his  equal. 


Did  we  in  our  own  strength  confide, 
Our  striving  would  be  losing ; 


115 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  anC)  tbeir  Stor^ 

Were  not  the  right  man  on  our  side. — 

The  man  of  God's  own  choosing-. 
Dost  ask  who  that  may  be? 
Christ  Jesus :  it  is  he ; 
Lord  Sabaoth  his  name, 
From  age  to  age  the  same, 

And  he  must  win  the  battle. 

And  though  this  world,  with  devils  filled, 
Should  threaten  to  undo  us, 

We  will  not  fear;  for  God  hath  willed 
His  truth  to  triumph  through  us. 

The  Prince  of  darkness  grim, — 

We  tremble  not  for  him : 

His  rage  we  can  endure 

For,  lo !  his  doom  is  sure : 

One  little  word  shall  fell  him. 

That  word  above  all  earthly  powers  — 
No  thanks  to  them  —  abideth; 

The  spirit  and  the  gift  are  ours, 
Through  him  who  with  us  sideth. 

Let  goods  and  kindred  go, 

This  mortal  life  also : 

The  body  they  may  kill. 

God's  truth  abideth  still; 
His  kingdom  is  forever. 

— Martin  LutJicr. 
(  Translated  by  F.  //.  Jlcdi^^c.  ) 
ii6 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 


This  hymn  should  be  very  near  to  the  heart  of 
every  Protestant  Christian,  for  it  was  written  in  the 
year  when  the  Evangelical  Princes  delivered  their 
historic  protest  at  the  Diet  of  Spires,  out  of  which 
the  word  "  Protestant,"  in  its  present  religious 
sense,  was  born.  In  1530,  while  the  Diet  of  Augs- 
burg was  in  session,  Luther  used  often  to  sing  it  to 
comfort  himself  and  his  friends.  It  has  been  called 
the  "  Marseillaise  of  the  Reformation." 

Born,  as  this  hymn  was,  in  time  of  storm,  it  has 
graced  many  a  stormy  scene,  not  only  in  Germany, 
but  in  other  lands.  When  the  struggle  for  Protestant- 
ism was  transferred  to  the  hands  of  the  great  king, 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  that  heroic  Swede  found  comfort 
and  inspiration  in  Luther's  immortal  hymn,  and 
commanded  it  to  be  sung  on  the  day  of  his  death,  at 
the  battlefield  of  Lutzen.  On  the  morning  of  his 
last  battle,  when  the  armies  of  Gustavus  and  Wallen- 
stein  were  drawn  up,  waiting  till  the  morning  mist 
dispersed  to  commence  the  attack,  the  king  com- 
manded this  hymn  to  be  sung,  accompanied  by  the 
drums  and  trumpets  of  the  whole  army.  Immedi- 
ately afterwards,  the  mist  broke,  and  the  sunshine 
burst  on  the  two  armies.  For  a  moment  Gustavus 
Adolphus  knelt  beside  his  horse,  in  face  of  his  sol- 
diers, and  repeated  his  usual  battle  prayer:  "O 
Lord  Jesus  Christ!  bless  our  arms,  and  this  day's 
battle,  for  the  glory  of  thy  holy  name!"  Then 
passing  along  the  lines,  with  a  few  brief  words  of 

117 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

encourag-ement,  he  gave  the  battle  cry,  "  God  with 
usi  " — the  same  with  which  he  had  conquered  at 
Leipzig.  Thus  began  the  day  which  laid  him  low 
amidst  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  with  those  three 
sentences  on  his  dying  lips,  noble  and  Christian  as 
any  that  ever  fell  from  the  lips  of  dying  man  since 
the  days  of  the  last  martyr:  "  I  seal  with  my  blood 
the  liberty  and  religion  of  the  German  nation!" 
' '  My  God,  my  God !  ' ' —  and  the  last  that  were  heard, 
"  Alas!  my  poor  queen!  " 

Luther's  splendid  hymn  has  received  many  a  bap- 
tism of  fire  like  that.  It  is  related  that  on  the  Sab- 
bath afternoon  before  the  overthrow  of  ttie  French 
army  in  the  last  Franco-Prussian  war,  the  second 
Napoleon,  then  in  the  shadow  of  his  swiftly-coming 
doom,  rode  out  to  review  his  troops.  In  doing  so 
he  came  near  enough  to  the  German  camps  to  hear 
them  singing,  and  he  inquired  what  it  was  they  sang. 
He  was  informed  that  it  was  Luther's  hymn, — 

"  A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God." 

It  is  said  that  the  fated  emperor  went  away  sadly, 
remarking  that  it  was  impossible  to  fight  against 
soldiers  who  went  into  battle  with  hymns  like  that 
upon  their  lips. 

This  hymn  is  suggestive  of  the  source  of  Martin 
Luther's  invincible  courage  and  strength.  To  him 
God  was  ever  present,  as  the  source  of  all  blessing. 
At  one  time,  looking  out  from  his  window,  he  saw 
a  little  bird  which  had  just  alighted  on  the  bough 

ITS 


The  Prince  of  darkness  grim,— 
We  fre//i/'/e  not  for  liiiii'" 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  ant)  tbeir  Stor^ 


of  a  pear  tree  that  grew  in  his  garden.  Luther 
looked  upon  it  and  said:  "  That  little  bird,  how  it 
covers  its  head  with  its  wings,  and  will  sleep  there, 
so  still  and  fearless,  though  over  it  are  the  infinite 
starry  spaces  and  the  great  blue  depths  of  im- 
mensity. Yet  it  fears  not :  it  is  at  home.  The  God 
that  made  it,  too,  is  there." 

Once  on  coming  home  from  Leipzig  in  the  autumn 
season,  he  burst  forth  in  loving  wonder  at  the  fields 
of  corn.  "  How  it  stands  there,"  he  says,  "  erect 
on  its  beautiful  taper  stem,  and  bending  its  beauti- 
ful golden  head  with  bread  in  it- — the  bread  of  man 
sent  to  him  another  year. " 

Thomas  Carlyle,  who  could  be  bitter  enough  in 
his  criticism  where  there  was  the  le^st  shadow  of 
lack  of  genuineness  in  a  man  or  his  utterances, 
quotes  these  passages  of  Luther's  and  says:  "  Such 
thoughts  as  these  are  as  little  windows  through  which 
we  gaze  into  the  interior  of  the  depths  of  Martin 
Luther's  soul,  and  see  visible,  across  its  tempests 
and  clouds,  a  whole  heaven  of  light  and  love.  He 
inight  have  painted,  he  might  have  sung;  could 
have  been  beautiful  like  Raphael,  great  like  Michael 
Angelo. ' ' 

The  first  line  of  this  national  hymn  of  Protestant 
Germany  is  very  fittingly  inscribed  on  the  tomb  of 
the  great  reformer  at  Wittenberg,  and  has  been 
read  with  tearful  eyes  by  many  a  Protestant  pilgrim 
to  that  historic  spot. 


NEARER  HOME. 
At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light.  —  Zachariah  xiv. ,  7. 


PHCEBE  GARY 


NEARER  HOME. 


GARY.     6.     (Irregular.)  , 

Eben  Tour-jee.  Ad.  by  L.  Franklin  Snow. 


One  sweetly  solemn  thought 

Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er, 
I  am  nearer  home  to-day, 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before. 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 
Where  the  many  mansions  be, 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne. 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea. 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life. 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down, 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 

But  lying  darkly  between. 

Winding  down  through  shades  of  night. 
Is  the  silent  unknown  stream, 

That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 
127 


Ilmmortal  Ib^mns  ant>  tbeir  Stor^ 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dread  abysm, 
Closer  death  to  my  lips 

Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet, 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink, 

If  it  be  that  I'm  nearer  home, 
Even  to-day  than  I  think. 

Father,  perfect  my  trust. 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  rock  of  living  faith. 

— ■  PJicvbc  Ca7'y. 

Phoebe  Gary  wrote  this  beautiful  lyric,  which  will 
probably  outlive  all  her  other  poems,  when  she  was 
only  a  girl,  seventeen  years  of  age.  It  was  on  the 
Sabbath.  She  had  attended  church  in  the  morning, 
and  on  coming  home  to  a  friend's  house,  her  heart 
stirred  with  emotion  by  the  services  in  which  she 
had  but  just  taken  part,  she  retired  to  her  room  and 
wrote  this  hymn.  Metrical  versions  have  been 
made  by  many  compilers,  and  the  poem  is  now 
found  in  nearly  all  the  hymn  books  of  the  English 
tongue. 

After  both  she  and  her  hymn  had  become  famous, 
this  friend  wrote  to  her,  impiiring  about  the  hymn 
and  its  story.      In  answering  her  friend's  letter  she 

128 


^ 


•^ 


IFmmortal  Ib^mns  auD  tbeir  Storv 

says:  "  I  enclose  the  hymn  for  you.  It  was  written 
eighteen  years  ago  (1842)  in  your  own  house.  I 
composed  it  in  the  little  back  third-story  bedroom, 
one  Sunday  morning,  after  coming  from  church ; 
and  it  makes  me  very  happy  to  think  that  any  word 
I  could  say  has  done  any  good  in  the  world." 

Dr.  Russell  H.  Conwell,  of  Philadelphia,  relates 
a  very  beautiful  and  interesting  incident  connected 
with  the  singing  of  this  hymn.  Dr.  Conwell  was 
traveling  in  China  and  had  occasion  one  day  to  en- 
ter a  gambling  house  in  a  Chinese  city.  Among 
those  present  were  two  Americans,  one  a  young  man 
and  the  other  older.  They  were  betting  and  drink- 
ing in  a  terrible  way,  the  elder  one  giving  utterance 
continually  to  the  foulest  profanity.  Two  games 
had  been  finished,  the  young  man  losing  each  time. 
The  third  game,  with  fresh  bottles  of  liquor,  had 
just  begun,  and  the  young  man  sat  lazily  back  in 
his  chair  while  his  companion  shuffled  the  cards. 
The  man  was  a  long  time  dealing  the  cards,  and  the 
young  man,  looking  carelessly  about  the  room,  be- 
gan to  hum  a  tune  and  finally  to  sing,  in  a  low  tone 
and  quite  unconsciously,  this  h3'mn, — 

"  One  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er, 
I  am  nearer  home  to-day, 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before." 

But  while  the  young  man   sang,  his  more  mature 


flmmortal  1bv?mns  an&  tbeir  Story 

and  more  depraved  companion  stopped  dealing-  the 
cards,  stared  at  the  singer  a  moment,  and  then, 
throwing  the  cards  on  the  floor,  exclaimed, — 

"  Harry,  where  did  yon  learn  that  tune?  " 

"  What  tune?  " 

"  Why,  the  one  you  have  been  singing." 

The  young  man  said  he  did  not  know  what  he  had 
been  singing. 

The  other  repeated  the  words,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  the  younger  man  said  he  had  learned  them 
in  a  Sunday-school  in  America. 

"Come,"  said  the  elder  gambler,  getting  up; 
"  come,  Harry;  here's  what  I  have  won  from  you; 
go  and  use  it  for  some  good  purpose.  As  for  me, 
as  God  sees  me,  I  have  played  my  last  game  and 
drank  my  last  bottle.  I  have  misled  you,  Harry, 
and  I  am  sorry.  Give  me  your  hand,  my  boy,  and 
say  that  for  old  America's  sake,  if  for  no  other,  you 
will  quit  this  infernal  business. 

This  story  gave  the  greatest  happiness  to  Miss 
Gary  when  she  heard  it.  After  her  death.  Dr.  Con- 
well  received  a  letter  from  the  older  man  referred 
to  in  the  story,  in  which  he  declared  that  he  had  be- 
come a  "  hard-working  Christian,"  and  that  "  Har- 
ry "  had  utterly  renounced  gambling  and  kindred 
vices. 

Miss  Gary  did  not  set  a  very  high  value  upon  this 
poem  when  it  was  written,  and  was  surprised  in 
later  years  to  find  that  it  outran  in  popularity  other 

132 


Immortal  Ibpmns  anC)  tbeir  Stor^ 


poems  to  whose  composition  she  had  griven  much 
more  thought  and  time.  It  doubtless  owes  its  uni- 
versal success  to  the  fact  that  it  was  born  out  of  her 
own  heart  experience,  and  because  of  that  has 
touched  the  hearts  of  readers  everywhere. 

Phoebe  Car}'  died  at  the  age  of  forty-seven,  and 
found  at  the  last  that  the  prayer  of  the  closing  verse 
of  her  hymn  was  answered, — 

"  Father,  perfect  my  trust, 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 
On  the  rock  of  living  faith. ' ' 


fe^i^ 


THE  PILGRIM'S  LOT. 

Strangers  and  pilgrims  on  the  eYzr^/t.— Hebrews 
xi.,  13- 


JOHX  H-ESI.EY 


THE  PILGRIM'S  LOT. 


GANGES.     C,  P,  ]y[. 


S.  Chandler. 


t— —  , — "--I ^=1= — ^=t; 1 »— u_, — t-^ — — , 1 -^-r 


How  happy  is  the  pilgrim's  lot, 

How  free  from  every  anxious  thought, 

From  worldly  hope  and  fear! 
Confined  to  neither  court  nor  cell, 
His  soul  disdains  on  earth  to  dwell  — 

He  only  sojourns  here. 

His  happiness  in  part  is  mine. 
Already  saved  from  self-design, 

From  every  creature-love ! 
Bless'd  with  the  scorn  of  finite  good, 
My  soul  is  lighten 'd  of  its  load, 

And  seeks  the  things  above. 

139 


IFmmortal  tb^mus  auD  tbeir  Stor^ 

The  things  eternal  I  pursue, 
A  happiness  beyond  the  view 

Of  those  that  basely  pant 
For  things  by  nature  felt  and  seen; 
Their  honors,  wealth,  and  pleasures  mean 

I  neither  have,  nor  want. 

I  have  no  sharer  of  my  heart, 
To  rob  my  Saviour  of  a  part. 

And  desecrate  the  whole; 
Only  betroth 'd  to  Christ  am  I, 
And  wait  his  coming  from  the  sky 

To  wed  my  happy  soul. 

I  have  no  babes  to  hold  me  here, 
But  children  more  securely  dear 

For  mine  I  humbly  claim ; 
Better  than  daughters,  or  than  sons, 
Temples  divine  of  living  stones, 

Inscrib'd  with  Jesus'  name. 

No  foot  of  land  do  I  possess, 
No  cottage  in  this  wilderness  — 

A  poor  wayfaring  man ; 
I  lodge  awhile  in  tents  below. 
Or  gladly  wander  to  and  fro. 

Till  I  my  Caiiacrii  gain. 

Nothing  on  earth  I  call  my  own  — 
A  stranger,  to  the  world  unknown, 
I  all  their  goods  despise; 
1 4" 


flmmortal  1h\?mns  au^  tbeir  Storp 


I  trample  on  their  whole  delight, 
And  seek  a  country  out  of  sight, 
A  country  in  the  skies. 

There  is  my  house  and  portion  fair, 
My  treasure  and  my  heart  is  there. 

And  my  abiding  home : 
For  me  my  elder  brethren  stay, 
And  angels  beckon  me  away, 

And  Jesus  bids  me  come. 

I  come;  thy  servant,  Lord,  replies; 
I  come  to  meet  thee  in  the  skies, 

And  claim  my  heavenly  rest ; 
Now  let  the  pilgrim's  journey  end. 
Now,  O  my  Saviour,  Brother,  Friend, 

Receive  me  to  thy  breast. 

— Jo  Jul  Wesley. 

This  hymn  was  written  by  John  Wesley  before  his 
marriage,  and  at  a  time  when  it  was  his  determina- 
tion never  to  marry.  He  would  have  been  a  far 
happier  man  if  he  had  held  steadfastly  to  this  deter- 
mination, for,  keen-sighted  as  he  was  in  his  judg- 
ment of  men,  and  great  as  was  his  executive  ability, 
he  was  a  poor  judge  of  women,  and  his  marriage 
was  the  most  unhappy  feature  of  his  remarkably 
successful  life.  His  single  estate,  and  the  fact  that 
he  had  given  over  his  property  to  a  board  of  trus- 
tees for  benevolent  objects,  is  brought  out  clearly 
in  the  verses, — 

141 


■ffmmortal  H^vmns  an^  tbeir  5torv> 


"  I  have  no  sharer  of  my  heart, 
To  rob  my  Saviour  of  a  part, 

And  desecrate  the  whole ; 
Only  betrothed  to  Christ  am  I, 
And  wait  his  coming  froin  the  sky 

To  wed  my  happy  soul. 

"  I  have  no  babes  to  hold  me  here. 
But  children  more  securely  dear 

For  mine  I  humbly  claim ; 
Better  than  daug'hters,  or  than  sons, 
Temples  divine  of  living  stones, 

Inscrib'd  with  Jesus'  name. 

"  Xo  foot  of  land  do  I  possess, 
No  cottage  in  this  wilderness  — 

A  poor  wayfaring  man ; 
I  lodge  awhile  in  tents  below, 
Or  gladly  wander  to  and  fro, 

Till  I  my  Cciiiaaii  gain." 

This  whole  hymn  on  "The  Pilgrim's  Lot"  was 
written  out  of  John  Wesley's  personal  experience. 
John  Nelson  gives  us  a  leaf  out  of  some  of  the  daily 
experiences  of  the  leader  of  the  great  Methodist  re- 
vival. He  writes:  "  All  that  time  Mr.  Wesley  and 
I  lav  on  the  floor;  he  had  my  great-coat  for  his  pil- 
low, and  I  had  Rurkett's  Xotcs  on  the  Xcii.'  Tcsta- 
moit  for  mine.  After  being  here  near  three  weeks, 
one  morning  about  three  o'clock,  Mr.  Wesley  turned 

142 


'For  Die  my  elder  brethre>i  stay. 
And  aiiisels  beckon  me  away" 


Ifmmortal  1f:>\}mn3  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

over,  and  lindinjj;  me  awake,  clapped  me  on  the  side, 
saying,  '  Brother  Nelson,  let  us  be  of  good  cheer;  I 
have  one  whole  side  yet,  for  the  skin  is  off  l)nt  one 
side.'  We  usually  preached  on  the  commons,  going 
from  one  common  to  another,  and  it  was  but  seldom 
any  one  asked  us  to  eat  or  drink.  One  day  we  had 
been  at  St.  Hilary  Downs,  and  Mr.  AVeslcy  had 
preached  from  l^vzckiel's  vision  of  dry  bones,  and 
there  was  a  shaking  among  the  people  as  he 
preached.  As  we  returned,  Mr.  Wesley  stopped 
his  horse  to  pick  the  blackberries,  saying,  '  Brother 
Nelson,  we  ought  to  be  thankful  that  there  are 
plenty  of  blackberries;  for  this  is  the  best  country  I 
ever  saw  for  getting  a  stomach,  but  the  worst  that 
ever  I  saw  for  getting  food.' 

A  great  many  years  after  this  incident,  an  old 
Methodist  preacher  preached  in  the  village  on  the 
heights  above  Marazion,  in  Cornwall,  near  St.  Hil- 
ary Downs.  After  the  service,  he  was  invited  to 
dine  with  a  member  of  the  congregation.  The 
table  was  somewhat  richly  laden.  For  a  minute  or 
two  he  seemed  to  hesitate  in  his  chair,  and  at  length 
said : 

"  Isn't  this  the  place  where  John  Wesley  sat  in 
the  saddle  and  dined  on  blackberries  from  the  hedge 
for  want  of  a  better  dinner?  " 

"  Yes,"  it  was  replied 

"Then,"  said  he,  "forbid  that  I  should  indulge 
in  this  plenty,  or  eat  or  drink  in  this  place.      Where 

145 


Ilmmortal  1bv?mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

Wesley  had  not  a  morsel  of  bread  offered  him,  I 
will  not  feast.  In  honor  of  his  memory  I  will  go 
down  on  the  downs  and  fast  and  pray." 

The  stalwart  old  pilgrim  stalked  away,  singing, — 

"  His  happiness  in  part  is  mine, 
Already  saved  from  self-design, 

From  every  creature-love  I 
Bless 'd  with  the  scorn  of  finite  good, 
My  soul  is  lighten'd  of  its  load, 

And  seeks  the  things  above." 

One  of  the  old  circuit  riders,  traveling  in  the 
backwoods  in  the  early  settlement  of  Indiana,  was 
enduring,  with  his  family,  the  deepest  poverty.  A 
settler  who  loved  him,  being  a  large  landholder, 
presented  him  with  a  title  deed  of  a  fertile  tract  of 
land.  He  went  home  glad  at  heart,  in  freedom,  as 
he  thought,  from  his  difficulties.  Three  months 
after  this  he  came  to  his  friend,  the  kind-hearted 
settler.  He  was  welcomed;  but  he  soon  drew  out 
the  parchment. 

"  Here,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  want  to  give  you  back 
your  title  deed. " 

"  What's  the  matter?  "   said  the  other;  "  any  flaw 
in  it?  " 

"  No." 

"  Isn't  it  good  land?  " 

"  Good  as  any  in  the  State. " 

"  Do  you  think  I  repent  the  gift?  " 
146 


Hmmortal  Ibpmns  an&  tbeit  Storp 


"  I  have  not  the  slightest  reason  to  doubt  your 
generosity. ' ' 

"  Why  don't  you  keep  it,  then?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  circuit  rider,  "  you  know  I 
am  very  fond  of  singing,  and  there  is  one  hymn  in 
my  book,  the  singing  of  which  is  one  of  the  greatest 
comforts  of  my  life.  I  have  not  been  able  to  sing 
it  with  my  whole  heart  since  I  have  been  here.  A 
part  of  it  runs  this  way, — 

'  No  foot  of  land  do  I  possess, 
No  cottage  in  this  wilderness  — 

A  poor  wayfaring  man; 
I  lodge  awhile  in  tents  below, 
Or  gladly  wander  to  and  fro. 

Till  I  my  Canaan  gain. 

'  There  is  my  house  and  portion  fair, 

My  treasure  and  my  heart  is  there, 

And  my  abiding  home.'  " 

"Take  your  title  deed, "  he  added;  "I  would 
rather  sing  that  hymn  than  own  America." 

He  went  on  his  way  singing  his  hymn,  and  has 
long  since  gone  to  his  "  abiding  home." 


147 


THE  PILGRIM'S  GUIDE. 

He   Icadetli    me   beside   the   still    ivaters. —  Psalm 
xxiii.,  2. 


W  •//.  /.  /A  M  H'll.  1. 1 A  MS 


THE  PILGRIM'S  GUIDE. 


Thomas  Hastings. 


ZION.     8,  7,  4. 


^^^a 


Guide  nie,  O  thou  great  Jehovah, 
Pilgrim  through  this  barren  land ; 

I  am  weak,  but  thou  art  mighty. 
Hold  me  by  thy  powerful  hand; 

Bread  of  heaven, 
Feed  me  till  I  want  no  more. 

Open  now  the  crystal  fountain, 

Whence  the  healing  streams  do  flow: 

Let  the  fiery  cloudy  pillar 

Guide  me  all  my  journey  through ; 

Strong  Deliverer. 
Be  thou  still  my  strength  and  shield. 

When  I  tread  the  verge  of  Jordan, 
Bid  mv  anxious  fears  subside; 

Death  of  death,  and  hell's  destruction, 
Land  me  safe  on  Canaan's  side: 


153 


IFmmortal  Ib^mns  ant)  tbeir  Storp 


Songs  of  praises 
I  will  ever  give  to  thee. 

Musing  on  my  habitation, 

Musing  on  my  heavenly  home, 

Fills  my  heart  with  holy  longing; 
Come,  Lord  Jesus,  quickly  come. 

Vanity  is  all  I  see, 
Lord,  I  long  to  be  with  thee. 

—  / 1  'illia  III  I  ]  ^illia  ins. 

William  Williams  was  the  great  hymn-writer  of 
Wales.  On  account  of  the  variet}'  and  uniform  ex- 
cellence of  his  hymns,  he  has  been  styled  the 
"Watts"  of  his  native  land, J  Others  have  called 
him  "the  last  lyric  poet  of  South  Wales,"  having 
reference  to  the  fact  that  the  utterances  of  his 
poems  and  hymns  were  among  the  last  pure  speci- 
mens of  native  Welsh  song.  AVilliams  was  brought 
up  in  troublous  times.  His  father  was  the  deacon 
of  an  Independent  Chapel  whose  congregation  often 
had  to  hide  in  a  cave  for  fear  of  their  persecutors. 
One  Sunday  morning  the  future  poet  and  hymn- 
writer,  as  he  passed  through  a  little  village,  heard 
the  church  bells  ringing  and  went  into  the  church. 
The  service  was  dull  and  uninteresting,  and  he  came 
out  disgusted;  but  as  he  came  into  the  open  air  he 
saw  that  the  people  were  standing  about  waiting 
for  something,    and  very  soon   a  tall,    dark-looking 

154 


^ 


•s>    ft 


Immortal  ■flD\:mn9  an&  tbeir  Stori? 


man  stood  up  on  one  of  the  cfravestones  and  began 
to  preach.  It  was  the  great  Whitefield,  whose  ser- 
mons were  firing  the  hearts  of  the  Welsh  through- 
out all  their  borders.  Williams  was  so  much  im- 
pressed by  what  he  heard  that  his  whole  life  was 
altered  and  he  became  not  only  a  great  hymn-writer 
but  an  eloquent  preacher  as  well. 

His  masterpiece,  "  Guide  me,  O  thou  great  Jeho- 
vah," like  all  his  hymns,  was  born  out  of  the  heart 
of  Welsh  life,  and  is  picturesque  with  many  a  refer- 
ence to  rocks  and  mountains,  valleys  and  brooks, 
storm  and  sunshine,  wanderings  on  dangerous  nar- 
row paths,  and  indeed,  of  wild  Welsh  nature  in  all 
her  many  moods. 

Rev.  S.  W.  Christophers  tells  a  very  beautiful 
story  connected  with  this  sweetest  of  all  the  min- 
strelsy of  Wales.  It  was  on  a  summer  afternoon  in 
the  country,  when  everything  felt  quiet  and  cool 
after  a  refreshing  shower.  In  a  retired  villa  a  few 
miles  out  of  London,  amidst  fruit  trees,  ,  roses, 
honeysuckles,  and  jasmine,  there  was  a  summer-like 
drawing-room  looking  out,  on  one  side,  upon  a  lawn 
bounded  by  stately  trees  and  fringed  with  flowers, 
and  on  the  other  opening  into  a  little  paradise  of  a 
conservatory.  There  in  a  small  elbow-chair  sat  a 
dear  old  woman,  a  pattern  of  antique  simplicity  and 
gracefulness. 

The  old  lady  was  dressed  in  a  black  silk  gown, 
open  at  the  neck  so  as  to  show  a  snowy  neckerchief 

157 


Ifmmortal  Ib^mns  auD  tbetr  Stori? 

folded  and  pinned  tinder  the  chin;  with  a  small, 
neatly  fringed,  cream-colored  shawl  brought  over 
the  shoulders,  and  fastened  at  the  waist  in  front, 
with  its  corners  falling  over  a  white  muslin  apron. 
She  wore  a  dainty  cap  with  a  modest  crown  and  a 
neat  close  border,  yet  not  so  close  as  to  hide  a  clear, 
open  brow,  beautiful  still;  and  it  seemed  more 
sweetly  beautiful  with  its  silvered  locks  than  when 
it  had  been  richly  adorned  in  the  prime  of  woman- 
hood. The  charming  old  saint's  face  inspired  lov- 
ing veneration.  Her  eyes  revealed  a  spiritual 
depth  of  kindness  and  peace.  Her  features  com- 
bined to  express  power,  intelligence,  gentleness,  re- 
pose, and  love.  And  there  was  something  in  the 
expression  which  inspired  the  thought  of  a  transi- 
tion already  begun  between  mortal  age  and  immor- 
tal youth.  In  opinion,  taste,  and  feeling  she  was  an 
amiable  representative  of  the  last  century;  used  to 
close  and  acute  observation,  well-informed,  remark- 
able for  good  sense,  with  a  tenacious  memory  and 
pleasant  command  of  her  native  English,  she  was 
one  of  those  rarely  beautiful  old  people  who  can 
really  help  a  later  generation  to  realize  the  life  of 
older  times. 

This  dear  old  saint,  after  a  conversation  with  her 
friend,  seemed  for  a  while  to  be  musing,  and  then, 
whispering  in  reply  to  her  friend's  question,  she 
said,  "It  was  as  if  He  talked  with  me."  And 
when,    a  little  later,  she  sat  murmuring  a  song  in 

15S 


flmmortal  Ibvmns  an^  tbelr  Stor^ 


sweet  undertones,  it  was  asked,  ' '  What  are  you  sing 
ing?     Shall  I  join  you?  " 

"  I  was  singing,"  said  she, — 

"  When  I  tread  the  verge  of  Jordan, 
Bid  my  anxious  fears  subside ; 
Death  of  death,  and  hell's  destruction, 
Land  me  safe  on  Canaan's  side: 

Songs  of  praises 
I  will  ever  eive  to  thee. " 


159 


BEFORE   THE  CROSS. 

Looking  u?ito  Jesus,  the  author  aud  finisher  of  our 
faith.- — Hebrews  xii.,  2. 


I 


A-.  J )'  PALMER 


BEFORE  THE  CROSS. 


OLIVET. 


i=d^=J^ 


fe^Ei^E^-jifJiSif^iegJiaiga^gs^lil 


My  faith  looks  tip  to  thee, 
Thou  Lamb  of  Calvary, 

Savior  divine ! 
Now  hear  me  while  I  pray : 
Take  all  my  guilt  away ; 
O  let  me  from  this  day 

Be  wholly  thine ! 

May  thy  rich  grace  impart 
Strength  to  my  fainting  heart. 

My  zeal  inspire  I 
As  thou  hast  died  for  me, 
Oh,  may  my  love  to  thee 
Pure,  warm,  and  changeless  be, 

A  living  fire ! 

While  life's  dark  maze  I  tread. 
And  griefs  around  me  spread. 
Be  thou  my  guide  I 
165 


Ifmmortal  "If^vmns  an&  tbeir  Stori? 


Bid  darkness  turn  to  day, 
Wipe  sorrow's  tears  away, 
Nor  let  me  ever  stray 
From  thee  aside. 

When  ends  life's  transient  dream. 
When  death's  cold,  sullen  stream 

Shall  o'er  me  roll. 
Blest  Savior,  then  in  love 
Fear  and  distrust  remove ! 
O  bear  me  safe  above, 

A  ransomed  soul ! 

— Ray  Palmer. 

This  is,  without  doubt,  the  most  spiritual  of  all 
American  hymns.  It  was  written  by  Dr.  Ray  Palm- 
er when  a  very  young  man,  "  between  his  college 
and  theological  studies."  The  hymn  was  the  ex- 
pression of  his  own  spiritual  longing.  He  was  in 
very  delicate  health  at  the  time,  and  in  the  discour- 
agements of  such  a  condition,  his  thought  turned 
toward  the  Savior  as  the  one  hope  upon  which  he 
could  rest.  The  Psalmist's  declaration  concerning 
others,  that  "  they  looked  unto  him  and  were  light- 
ened," proved  true  in  his  case. 

The  hymn  was  written  without  the  slightest  idea 
of  publication,  and  without  the  expectation  that  any 
eye  other  than  the  author's  would  look  on  it.  It 
was  a  meditation  on   spiritual  things  that  the  poetic 

1 66 


5  -^ 


IFmmortal  tb^^mui?  aiio  locir  Stor^ 

mind  of  Palmer  formulated  into  verse.  He  says 
concerning  the  writing:  "  I  gave  form  to  what  I 
felt,  by  writing,  with  little  effort,  the  stanzas.  I 
recollect  I  wrote  them  with  very  tender  emotions 
and  ended  the  last  line  with  tears." 

The  little  slip  on  which  the  hymn  had  been  writ- 
ten was  carried  about  in  the  author's  pocketbook  for 
a  long  time.  One  day,  on  the  street,  he  met  his 
friend,  Lowell  Mason,  the  well-known  musician,  and 
in  the  course  of  their  conversation  Mason  inquired 
of  Palmer  if  he  did  not  have  a  hymn  which  he  would 
be  willing  to  contribute  to  his  new  book.  The 
young  poet  opened  his  pocketbook  and  produced 
the  little  hymn,  then  two  or  three  years  old.  Low- 
ell Mason  was  at  once  attracted  by  it  and  desired  a 
copy.  This  incident  occurred  in  Boston,  and  the 
two  friends  stepped  together  into  a  store,  where  the 
copy  was  made  and  carried  away  by  the  musician. 
On  re-reading  the  hymn  in  his  study,  Mason  was  so 
impressed  by  it  that  he  composed  for  it  the  tune  of 
Olivet,  which  is  admirably  adapted  to  the  words. 

A  few  days  afterwards,  when  Mason  again  met 
Palmer  on  the  street,  his  first  words  were:  "  Mr. 
Palmer,  you  may  live  many  years,  and  do  many 
good  things,  but  I  think  you  will  be  best  known  to 
posterity  as  the  author  of  '  My  Faith  Looks  up  to 
Thee,'  "  which  prophecy  has  already  been  fulfilled. 

It  is  strange  that,  on  first  being  printed,  it  re- 
ceived no  particular  notice.      It  had,  however,  been 

169 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  an^  tbeir  Stor\) 

reprinted  in  a  number  of  religious  newspapers,  from 
one  of  which  Dr.  Andrew  Reed,  of  Scotland,  clipped 
it  while  he  was  traveling  in  this  country.  The  name 
of  the  author  was  not  given,  and  Dr.  Reed  took  it 
up  as  a  waif  and  inserted  it  in  a  new  hymn  book 
which  he  was  preparing,  publishing  it  anonymously. 
It  thus  came  to  be  well  known  abroad  before  it  be- 
gan to  receive  recognition  here.  It  has  long  since, 
however,  conquered  all  indifference,  is  in  all  the 
hymnals,  and  is  a  universal  favorite. 

Dr.  Duffield,  in  his  English  Hymns,  tells  the 
story  of  Mrs.  Layyah  Barakat,  a  native  Syrian 
woman  who  was  educated  in  the  schools  at  Beirut 
and  afterward  married  and  went  as  a  teacher  to 
Egypt.  Years  later,  when  exiled  for  a  time,  she 
traveled  in  this  country,  and  among  other  incidents 
she  related  that  she  had  been  permitted  to  see  the 
conversion  of  her  whole  fainily,  who  were  Maronites 
of  Mount  Lebanon.  Her  mother,  then  sixty-two 
years  of  age,  was  taught  by  her  this  hymn  in  Arabic. 
They  would  sit  on  the  house  roof  and  repeat  it  to- 
gether; and  when  the  news  came  back  to  Syria  that 
the  daughter  was  safe  in  America,  the  mother  could 
send  her  no  better  proof  of  her  faith  and  love  than 
in  the  trustful  words  of  this  precious  hymn,  assur- 
ing her  that  her  faith  still  looked  up  to  the  Lamb 
of  Calvary. 

Among  many  helpful  incidents  connected  with 
this  hymn   of  the   heart,    none   are   more  touching 

I7'j 


■ffmmortal  IbPinns  auD  tbeir  Stor^ 


than  this:  On  the  eve  of  one  of  the  most  fearful 
battles  of  our  Civil  War,  a  group  of  young-  soldiers 
had  assembled  in  a  tent  for  prayer.  They  knew 
quite  well  they  might  die  in  the  battle,  and  if  such 
should  be  their  fate,  they  wished  their  friends  to 
know  that  they  had  died  in  the  faith  of  Christ ;  so 
one  of  them  wrote  out  this  hymn,  and  each  man 
signed  his  name  at  the  bottom  of  the  paper.  Only 
one  survived  the  battle,  and  he  told  the  story. 


171 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

When  tJicy  saw  the  star,  they  rejoiced  with  exceed- 
ing great  joy. —  Matthew  ii. ,  lo. 


HEXRV  KIRKI-:  IVHITE 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


MISSIONARY  CHANT.     L.  M. 


Heinrich  »  hkistopher  Zetner. 


isa^il^lSi^iiiiiigli^ 


_;^-_  -m-  -m-  -g 


-^- 


iEb! 


^f^^^ii^lgg^ 


feg^i 


^-ft-Xr 


S^^^^^^Z 


i      I      i  I 

When  marshalled  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering-  host  bestud  the  sky, 

One  star  alone  of  all  the  train 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

Hark !  hark !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks. 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem; 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud,  the  night  was  dark, 
The  ocean  yawned,  and  rudely  blowed 

The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  bark. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze ; 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 
When  suddenly  a  star  arose. 

It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 


177 


Hmmortal  Ibi^mns  an&  tbeir  Stoves 

It  was  my  g'uide,  my  lijjfht,  my  all, 
It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

And,  through  the  storm  and  danger  s  thrall, 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moored,  my  perils  o'er, 

I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 
Forever  and  forever  more, 

The  Star,  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

— Henry  Kirkc  W'liitc. 

Henry  Kirke  White  died  when  he  was  but  twenty 
years  of  age,  yet  notwithstanding  this  fact,  and  the 
added  one  that  he  was  born  to  the  humblest  circum- 
stances in  life,  the  poet  Southey  gladly  becanie  his 
enthusiastic  biographer,  and  the  aristocratic  Byron 
was  his  brilliant  eulogist.  He  wrote  but  ten  hymns; 
he  needed  to  write  only  this  one  to  earn  immortality 
in  the  memories  and  hearts  of  all  lovers  of  sacred 
song. 

The  circumstances  connected  with  the  writing  of 
this  hymn  are  of  the  greatest  interest:  During  his 
school  days  AVhite  was  a  skeptic,  and,  with  the  giddy 
recklessness  of  yoiith,  was  accustomed  to  scoff  at 
and  ridicule  religious  tilings.  His  most  intimate 
friend  in  schr)ol  was  a  young  man  named  Almond, 
who,  though  not  a  Christian,  had  an  incjuiring  and 
serious  mind  wliich  was  open  to  evidence  on  the 
subject  (jf  Christianity. 

On  one  occasion  .Vlniond  was  called  to  the  bedside 


■ffmmortal  Ibvmns  an^  tbeir  Storig 

of  another  friend  who  was  a  believer  in  Christ,  and 
who  met  death  with  y^reat  peace  and  comfort.  The 
triumphs  of  faith  which  he  then  witnessed  greatly 
impressed  the  youth,  and  fully  convinced  him  of 
the  truth  of  religion  and  determined  him  to  become 
a  Christian.  Being  of  rather  a  timid  disposition,  he 
hesitated  to  make  known  his  change  of  mind  and 
feeling  to  White  for  fear  of  the  shafts  of  ridicule 
which  he  supposed  his  friend  would  hurl  against 
him. 

He  endeavored  for  a  time  to  continue  his  friend- 
ship with  White,  while  in  secret  he  sought  commun- 
ion with  the  Savior.  Finding  that  this  manner  of 
life  brought  him  no  peace,  he  finally  determined  to 
give  up  the  society  of  his  friend  and  openly  avow 
himself  a  believer  in  Christ. 

The  young  poet  felt  the  neglect  of  his  friend  very 
keenly,  and  sought  him  out  and  inquired  the  cause 
of  his  change  of  manner.  Almond,  thus  confronted, 
frankly  confessed  the  complete  transformation  that 
had  taken  place  in  his  convictions,  and  declared  his 
resolution  to  lead  a  Christian  life.  This  conduct 
seemed  to  White  to  imply  that  he  was  an  unworthy 
companion  for  any  one  who  was  seeking  to  live  the 
life  of  a  Christian,  and  his  sensitive  nature  was 
deeply  hurt. 

"  Good  God,  Almond!  "  he  exclaimed,  "  you  sure- 
ly regard  me  in  a  worse  light  than  I  deserve." 

The  change  that  had  come  over  Almond  so  deeply 
179 


IFmmortal  Ibvmns  auD  tbeir  Storp 

impressed  White  that  his  skeptical  views  were  shak- 
en. He  began  to  study  into  the  matter  more  ear- 
nestly, and  was  ere  long  convinced  of  the  divinity  of 
Christ  and  sought  him  as  his  personal  Savior.  The 
two  young  men  then  renewed  their  friendship, 
which  became  more  intimate  and  beautiful  than 
ever,  glorified  by  this  new  and  higher  sympathy. 

It  is  this  personal  experience  which  White  relates 
with  such  graphic  portraiture  in  his  great  hymn. 
If  we  read  some  of  these  verses  again,  putting  this 
personal  element  into  them,  we  shall  see  how  clearly 
and  strongly  he  tells  the  story  of  his  soul's  conver- 
sion,— 

"  Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud,  the  night  was  dark, 
The  ocean  yawned,  and  rudely  blowed 
The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  bark. 

"  Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze; 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 
When  suddenly  a  star  arose. 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

"  It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all. 

It  bade  my    dark  forebodings  cease; 
And,  through  the  storm  and  danger's  thrall, 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace." 

White,  who  liad  intended  before  to  be  an  attorney, 
now  determined  on  entering  the   ministry;  but  liis 

1 80 


Is 


■«^ 


^  "^ 

'^ 


Ilmmortal  IF^^mns  au&  tbeir  Stor^ 

frail  body  gave  way  at  the  very  opening  of  a  prom- 
ising career.  How  brilliant  that  promise  must 
have  been  one  may  easily  infer  from  the  fact  that 
Lord  Byron,  from  amidst  the  bitter  satire  and  cruel 
invective  of  his  ling/ is h  Bards  aiul  Scotc/i  Reviewers ^ 
pauses  with  gentle  tearfulness  to  lay  a  beautiful 
wreath  on  the  grave  of  this  noble  youth.  Happy 
for  Byron's  pen  if  it  had  always  been  as  well  guided 
as  in  celebrating  this  event :  — 

"  Unhappy  White!     When  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  swept  that  soaring  lyre  away, 
Which  else  had  sounded  an  immortal  lay! 
Oh,  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone. 
When  Science'  self  destroyed  her  favorite  son! 

"  'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow. 
And  helped  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low 
So  the  struck  eagle  stretched  upon  the  plain. 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, — 
Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart. 
And  winged  the  shaft  that  quivered  to  his  heart.  " 

But  Byron  was  mistaken,  brief  as  Henry  Kirke 
White's  life  had  been,  his  muse  had  already 
"sounded  an  immortal  lay"  in  this  beautiful 
hymn,  which  will  go  on  blessing  the  world  through 
all  time. 


183 


PRESSING  ON  IN  THE  CHRISTIAN  RACE. 

I  press  tozvard  tJic  mark  for  the  pri:zc  of  tJic  high 
calling  of  God  III  Christ  Jos /IS. —  Philippians  iii.,  14. 


nil  I  LI  I'  J  >t>/)/)h-// !(,/■: 


PRESSING  ON  IN  THE  CHRISTIAN  RACE. 


CHRISTMAS.     C.  M 


George  Frederick  Handel^ 


Awake,  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve, 

And  press  with  vigour  on ; 
A  heavenly  race  demands  thy  zeal, 

And  an  immortal  crown. 

A  cloud  of  witnesses  around 

Hold  thee  in  full  survey; 
Forget  the  steps  already  trod. 

And  onward  urge  thy  way. 

'Tis  God's  all-animating  voice 

That  calls  thee  from  on  high; 
'Tis  his  own  hand  presents  the  prize 

To  thine  aspiring  eye  — 
That  prize,  with  peerless  glories  bright. 

Which  shall  new  luster  boast 
When  victors'  wreaths  and  monarchs'  gems 

Shall  blend  in  common  dust. 
1S9 


Hmmortal  Ibvmns  auD  tbeir  Stor\? 

Blest  Saviour,  introduced  by  thee, 

Have  I  my  race  beg-un  . 
And,  crowned  with  victory,  at  thy  feet 

I'll  lay  my  honors  down. 

—Philip  Doddridor. 

No  other  hymn-writers  save  Charles  Wesley  and 
Isaac  Watts  have  left  so  many  hymns  which  are  in 
common  use  to-day  as  Philip  Doddridge.  Dod- 
dridge was  a  tireless  literary  worker,  and  left  many 
excellent  volumes  as  the  fruits  of  his  pen.  The 
sentiment  of  his  family  motto,  "  Duiii  vivimns  vn'a- 
wi/s/'  was  highly  eulogized  by  Johnson  in  his  cele- 
brated   lines:  — 

Live  while  you  live,'  the  epicure  would  sa}', 
'  And  seize  the  pleasures  of  the  present  day. ' 
*  Live  while  you  live, '  the  sacred  preacher  cries, 
'  And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it  flies. ' 
Lord,  in  my  life  let  both  nnite  in  thee : 
I  live  in  pleasure  while  I  live  to  thee  I  "' 

The  hymn  we  are  studying  is  in  the  spirit  of  this 
motto.  Doddridge's  hymns  were  almost  always 
written  for  immediate  use  in  connection  with  his 
sermons.  They  have  been  compared  to  "  spiritual 
amber  fetched  up  and  floated  off  from  sermons  long- 
since  lost  in  the  depths  of  bygone  time."  Strange 
to  say,  his  hymns  were  not  printed  during  the  au- 
thor's lifetime. 

190 


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IFmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor\? 


Dr.  Doddridge  often  found  the  theme  of  his  dis- 
courses, and  the  hymns  which  sprang  into  being 
with  them,  in  visions  which  came  to  him  in  sleep. 
Mr.  Harsha,  his  biographer,  relates  that  on  one  oc- 
casion he  retired  to  sleep  after  a  conversation  on  the 
state  of  the  soul  after  death.  In  the  sleep  which 
followed  he  dreamed  that  he  was  dead,  and  that 
his  spirit  soared  away  into  those  deep  regions  of  the 
infinite  which  oftentimes  awaken  our  trembling 
curiosity.  He  felt,  as  he  lost  sight  of  this  noisy, 
busy  world,  how  vain  and  empty  are  the  objects 
which  excite  its  inhabitants  so  much ;  and,  while 
musing  on  the  theme,  and  committing  himself  to 
the  care  of  the  Divine  Pilot  as  he  embarked  on  the 
ocean  of  immensity  and  sailed  amidst  islands  of 
stars,  he  fancied  he  was  met  on  the  shores  of  heav- 
en by  an  angel-guide,  who  conducted  him  to  a  palace 
which  had  been  assigned  for  his  abode. 

The  dreamer  wondered  at  the  place,  for  it  made 
him  think  that  heaven  was  not  so  unlike  earth  as 
the  teachings  of  Scripture  had  led  him  to  expect ; 
but  he  was  told  that  there  he  was  to  be  gradually 
prepared  for  unknown  glories  afterwards  to  be  re- 
vealed. In  the  inner  apartment  of  the  palace  stood 
a  golden  cup,  with  a  grape-vine  embossed  on  it, 
which  he  learned  was  meant  to  signify  the  living 
union  of  Christ  and  his  people.  But  as  he  and  his 
guide  were  talking,  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door  be- 
fore him  announced  the  approach  of  some  one,  and 

193 


Hmmortal  Ib^mng  an^  tbeir  Stori? 


the  unfolding"  portals  revealed  the  majestic  presence 
of  the  Redeemer.  The  now  glorified  disciple  im- 
mediately fell  at  the  feet  of  his  gracious  Lord,  but 
was  raised  with  assurances  of  favor  and  of  the  kind 
acceptance  which  had  been  vouchsafed  to  all  his  lov- 
ing services.  Then,  taking  up  the  cup  and  drink- 
ing out  of  it,  the  Savior  put  it  in  Dr.  Doddridge's 
hand,  inviting  him  to  drink  He  shrunk  from  so 
great  an  honor,  but  was  told,  "  If  thou  drink  it  not, 
thou  hast  no  part  with  me." 

He  was  ready  to  sink  under  the  transport  of  grati- 
tude and  joy  when  the  Savior,  in  consideration  of 
his  meekness,  left  him  for  a  while,  with  the  assur- 
ance that  he  would  soon  return ;  directing  him,  in 
the  meantime,  to  look  and  meditate  upon  the  objects 
that  were  around;  and  lol  there  were  pictures  hung 
all  about,  illustrative  of  his  own  pilgrim-life;  scene 
after  scene  of  trial  and  deliverance,  of  conflict  and 
victory,  meeting  his  eyes  and  fillmg  his  heart  with 
love  and  wonder  And,  as  he  gazed  on  them,  he 
thought  —  what  we  often  fancy  will  be  the  saint's 
first  thought  in  heaven  —  how  all  the  perils  of  his 
former  life  were  over.  Exulting  in  his  new-found 
safety,  a  burst  of  joy  broke  the  enchantment  of  his 
celestial  dream  and  he  awoke  again,  amidst  a  flood 
of  tears,  to  the  consciousness  that  he  was  in  the 
body  still. 

No  wonder  that  Doddridge  arose  from  visions 
like   that   to  write   of  the   glorious   realities  of  the 

194 


Hmmortal  IfD^mns  anD  tbeir  Storp 

spiritual  world  in  lines  that  have  inspired  the 
church  in  every  land.  "The  prize"  about  which 
he  sings  was  so  real  to  him  that  he  makes  it  seem 
real  to  us, — 

"  That  prize,  with  peerless  glories  bright, 
Which  shall  new  luster  boast 
When  victors'  wreaths  and  monarchs'  gems 
Shall  blend  in  common  dust. ' ' 


195 


HYMN  TO   THE  GOD  OF  ABRAHAM. 
I  ain  the  Lord  God  of  AbrahciDi.  —  Genesis  xxviii.,  13. 


•«s 


HYMN  TO   THE  GOD  OF  ABRAHAM. 


LEONI.     6,  8,  4. 


Ad.  by  Rabbi  Leoni 


The  God  of  Abraham  praise, 
Who  reigns  enthron'd  above; 
Ancient  of  everlasting  days, 
And  God  of  love : 
Jehovah  —  great  I  AM  — 
By  earth  and  heaven  confess'd; 
I  bow  and  bless  the  sacred  name, 
Forever  bless 'd. 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise, 
At  whose  supreme  command. 
From  earth  I  rise,  and  seek  the  joys 
At  his  right  hand : 


Ilmmortal  Ib^mns  ?tn&  tbeir  Stor^ 


I  all  on  earth  forsake, 
Its  wisdom,  fame,  and  power; 
And  him  my  only  portion  make, 
My  Shield  and  Tower. 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise, 
Whose  all-sufficient  grace 
Shall  guide  me  all  my  happy  days, 
In  all  my  ways: 
He  calls  a  worm  his  friend! 
He  calls  himself  my  God! 
And  he  shall  save  me  to  the  end, 
Thro'  Jesus'  blood. 

He  by  himself  hath  sworn! 
I  on  his  oath  depend, 
I  shall,  on  eagle's  wings  upborne. 
To  heaven  ascend ; 
I  shall  behold  his  face, 
I  shall  his  power  adore, 
And  sing  the  wonders  of  his  grace 
For  evermore. 

Tho'  nature's  strength  decay. 
And  earth  and  hell  withstand, 
To  Canaan's  bounds  I  urge  my  way 
At  his  command : 
The  wat'r}'-  deep  I  pass, 
With  Jesus  in  my  view; 
And  thro'  the  howling  wilderness 
My  way  pursue. 


•ffmrnortal  Ibvmns  an&  tbetr  Stor^ 

The  goodly  land  I  see, 
With  peace  and  plenty  bless'd; 
A  land  of  sacred  liberty 
And  endless  rest. 
There  milk  and  honey  flow, 
And  oil  and  wine  abound, 
And  trees  of  life  forever  grow, 
With  mercy  crown 'd. 

There  dwells  the  Lord  our  King, 
The  Lord  our  Righteousness, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  world  and  sin. 
The  Prince  of  Peace : 
On  Sion's  sacred  heights 
His  kingdom  still  maintains; 
And  glorious,  with  his  saints  in  light 
Forever  reigns. 

He  keeps  his  own  secure, 
He  guards  them  by  his  side, 
Arrays  in  garments  white  and  pure 
His  spotless  bride. 
With  streams  of  sacred  bliss, 
With  groves  of  living  joys, 
With  all  the  fruits  of  Paradise 
He  still  supplies. 

Before  the  great  Three-One 
They  all  exulting  stand; 
And  tell  the  wonders  he  hath  done. 
Thro'  all  their  land: 
203 


•flmmortal  Ibvmns  anD  tbeir  Stori? 


The  listening  spheres  attend, 
And  swell  the  growing  fame; 
And  sing  in  songs  which  never  end, 
The  wondrous  Name. 

The  God  who  reigns  on  high, 
The  great  archangels  sing. 
And  "  Holy,  holy,  holy,"  cry, 
"  Almighty  King! 
Who  was,  and  is,  the  same ! 
And  evermore  shall  be ; 
Jehovah  —  Father  —  Great  I  AM '. 
We  worship  thee." 

Before  the  Saviour's  face 
The  ransom'd  nations  bow; 
O ' er whelm 'd  at  his  almighty  grace, 
Forever  new : 
He  shows  his  prints  of  love, — • 
They  kindle  to  a  flame ! 
And  sound  through  all  the  worlds  above, 
The  slaughter 'd  Lamb. 

The  whole  triumphant  host 
Give  thanks  to  God  on  high ; 
"  Hail,  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost!  " 
They  ever  cry: 
Hail,  Abraham's  God  —  and  uii}ic! 
I  join  the  heavenly  lays, 
All  might  and  majesty  are  thine. 
And  endless  praise. 

—  lliouias  Olivers. 
204 


•ffmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 


So  fine  a  hymn-writer  and  so  rare  a  critic  of  devo- 
tional poetry  as  James  Montgomery,  writing  of  this 
hymn,  says:  "  There  is  not  in  our  language  a  lyric 
of  more  majestic  style,  more  elevated  thought  or 
more  glorious  imagery;  its  structure,  indeed,  is  un- 
attractive; and,  on  account  of  the  short  lines,  occa- 
sionally uncouth ;  but,  like  a  stately  pile  of  archi- 
tecture, severe  and  simple  in  design,  it  strikes  less 
on  the  first  view  than  after  deliberate  examination, 
when  its  proportions  become  more  graceful,  its 
dimensions  expand,  and  the  mind  itself  grows 
greater  in  contemplating  it.  The  man  who  wrote 
this  hymn  must  have  had  the  finest  ear  imaginable ; 
for  on  account  of  the  peculiarity  of  the  measure, 
none  but  a  person  of  equal  musical  and  poetic  tastes 
could  have  produced  the  harmony  perceptible  in  the 
verse. " 

Olivers  conceived  this  hymn  while  visiting  a  Jew- 
ish synagogue  in  company  with  his  friend,  John 
Bakewell,  himself  a  hymn-writer  of  a  high  order. 
During  the  service  in  the  synagogue,  Olivers  was  so 
deeply  impressed  with  an  old  Hebrew  melody  sung 
by  Dr.  Leoni  that  he  could  scarcely  wait  till  his  re- 
turn home  to  write  out  the  hymn  that  was  surging 
in  his  brain,  and  which  he  metrically  adapted  to  the 
same  splendid  tune. 

Olivers  lived  to  see  the  issue  of  at  least  thirty 
editions  of  this  hymn.  It  has  been  ever  a  hymn 
fruitful  in  comfort  to  worshipful  souls,  especially  to 

205 


flmmovtal  Ib^mns  an5  tbeir  Storp 

those  in  trial,  or  conscious  of  the  near  approach  of 
death.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  other  hymn 
has  been  more  frequently  on  the  lips  of  dying  saints. 
The  wife  of  the  celebrated  William  Carvosso,  a 
woman  of  beautiful  character,  was  called  for  the 
last  eighteen  months  of  her  life  to  endure  extreme 
suffering.  During  all  this  time,  however,  her  cheer- 
ful face  was  a  comfort  to  all  who  saw  her,  and 
scarce  a  day  passed  that  she  did  not  sing  with  joy- 
ous hope  some  portion  of  Olivers'  hymn.  Now  it 
would  be, — 

"  The  God  of  Abraham  praise, 
At  whose  supreme  command, 
From  earth  I  rise,  and  seek  the  joys 
At  his  right  hand : 
I  all  on  earth  forsake. 
Its  wisdom,  fame,  and  power; 
And  him  my  only  portion  make, 
My  Shield  and  Tower." 

And  then  frequently, — 

"  He  by  himself  hath  sworn! 
I  on  his  oath  depend, 
I  shall,  on  eagle's  wings  upborne, 
To  heaven  ascend." 

Thus  resting  her  soul  on  the  Divine  oath,  she  passed 
rejoicing  into  heaven. 

In  a  snug  little  retreat  under  a  hillside,  near  Cal- 
206 


Hmmortal  Ibpmns  ant)  tbeir  Stor^ 

lington,  in  the  West  of  England,  the  early  preach- 
ers of  the  Wesleyan  reformation  used  to  be  enter- 
tained, with  motherly  affection,  by  a  Mrs.  Geake,  a 
woman  of  remarkable  spiritual  cultivation.  When 
the  good  woman  was  young,  she  was  always  ready, 
in  the  warmth  of  her  zeal,  to  go  from  place  to  place, 
assisting  the  preachers  by  the  use  of  her  fine  voice 
in  singing.  And  now,  when  beyond  eighty,  she 
would  say,  "  My  voice  is  weak,  but  I  can  sing  still, 
my  heart  sings ;  and  often  of  an  evening  I  lift  up 
my  song. 

"Can't  you  give  me  a  morning  song?"  said  a 
friend  one  day,  a  little  while  before  she  passed  over 
to  her  reward.  "Yes,  I  think  lean."  And  then, 
in  a  thin,  tremulous  tone,  she  sang  from  her  favorite 
hymn,  which  she  said  Dr.  Adam  Clarke  had  taught 
her  while  she  was  a  girl,  when  he  used  to  preach  in 
her  father's  parlor.  These  were  the  triumphant 
verses, — 

"  Tho'  nature's  strength  decay, 
And  earth  and  hell  withstand. 
To  Canaan's  bounds  I  urge  my  way 
At  his  command : 
The  wat'ry  deep  I  pass, 
With  Jesus  in  my  view; 
And  thro'  the  howling  wilderness 
My  way  pursue. 

207 


■flmmortal  Ibvmns  an^  tbeir  Stor\> 

"  The  goodly  land  I  see, 

With  peace  and  plenty  bless'd, 
A  land  of  sacred  liberty 
And  endless  rest. 
There  milk  and  honey  flow, 
And  oil  and  wine  abound, 
And  trees  of  life  forever  grow, 
With  inercy  crown'd. " 

Rev.  William  Worth,  noted  for  the  saintliness  of 
his  personal  character,  was  nearing  the  end  of  his 
earthly  pilgrimage.  He  had  been  lying  for  some 
time,  in  silence,  with  an  air  as  though  he  were  listen- 
ing attentively.  At  length  he  said:  "  Hark!  do 
you  hear  that  sweet  music'  Yes,"  he  added,  speak- 
ing to  the  unseen,  "  precious  Savior,  thou  art 
minel  "  Then,  breaking  forth  into  praise  he  ex- 
claimed,— 

"  I  shall  behold  his  face, 
I  shall  his  power  adore, 
And  sing  the  wonders  of  his  grace 
For  evermore !  ' ' 

And  so,  with  glorious  visions  entranced,  he  passed 
up  to  "  behold  his  face,"  for  evermore. 


X^^"*^^ 
-t^ 


208 


BRO THERL Y  LOVE. 
Let  brotherly  love  continue. —  Hebrews  xiii.,  i. 


JOHS  FAWCETT 


BRO  THERL  V  L O  VE. 


DENNIS.    S.  M. 


Hans  George  Naegeli. 


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Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds 
Our  hearts  in  Christian  love ; 

The  fellowship  of  kindred  minds 
Is  like  to  that  above. 

Before  our  Father's  throne, 
We  pour  our  ardent  prayers; 

Our  fears,  our  hopes,  our  aims  are  one, 
Our  comforts  and  our  cares. 

We  share  our  mutual  woes. 

Our  mutual  burdens  bear; 
And  often  for  each  other  flows 

The  sympathizing  tear. 

When  we  asunder  part. 

It  gives  us  inward  pain; 
But  we  shall  still  be  joined  in  heart, 

And  hope  to  meet  again. 


21.3 


Ummortal  1b\>mn5  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

This  glorious  hope  revives 

Our  courage  by  the  way; 
While  each  in  expectation  lives, 

And  longs  to  see  the  day. 

From  sorrow,  toil,  and  pain, 

And  sin  we  shall  be  free ; 
And  perfect  love  and  friendship  reign 

Through  all  eternity. 

— JoJin  Faii'cett. 

This,  the  sweetest  of  all  the  hymns  that  voice  the 
joys  of  Christian  brotherhood,  was  inspired  by  an 
incident  as  touching  and  tender  as  the  hymn  itself. 
Dr.  Fawcett  had  been  preaching  for  a  number  of 
years  to  a  faithful  and  loving  flock  near  Wainsgate, 
in  Yorkshire,  England.  His  family  had  increased 
and  the  small  income  the  church  at  that  place  was 
able  to  pay  him  had  remained  stationary,  so  he 
thought  it  was  his  duty  to  accept  a  call  which  he  had 
received  to  becoine  the  pastor  of  a  church  in  Lon- 
don. He  preached  his  farewell  sermon  to  his 
church  in  Yorkshire,  and  loaded  six  or  seven  wagons 
with  his  library  and  his  household  goods,  prepara- 
tory to  making  the  journey  to  his  new  home.  At 
last,  the  family  were  all  ready  for  departure ;  but 
meanwhile  the  members  of  his  poor  church  were 
almost  broken-hearted,  and  men,  women,  and 
children    gathered    about    them,  in    tears,    and    be- 

214 


.8 
-  Si, 

•^1 


Hmmortal  Ibpmns  anO  tbeir  Stor^ 


sought  him,  even  then,  not  to  leave  them.  Dr. 
Fawcett  and  his  wife,  overcome  with  emotion,  sat 
down  side  by  side  on  one  of  the  packing  cases  and 
wept  bitterly. 

Looking  up,  Mrs.  Fawcett  said,  in  a  voice  choking 
with  emotion,  "  O  John,  John,  I  cannot  bear  this! 
I  know  not  how  to  go  I  " 

"  Nor  I,  either,"  said  the  gentle-souled  preacher. 
"  Nor  will  we  go.  Unload  the  wagons,  and  put 
everything  in  the  place  where  it  was  before. ' ' 

The  people  of  Wainsgate  cried  for  joy,  and  has- 
tened to  get  the  furniture  and  books  back  into  the 
house  again.  A  letter  was  sent  to  the  church  in 
London  to  explain  to  them  why  his  coming  was  im- 
possible ;  and  the  big-hearted  pastor  renewed  his 
labors  on  a  salary  of  less  than  two  hundred  dollars 
a  year.  This  famous  hymn  was  written  to  com- 
memorate this  event. 

There  are  many  tender  and  loving  associations 
connected  with  this  song  of  the  heart.  Mr.  D.  L. 
Moody  relates  that  in  his  early  experience  as  a  Sun- 
day-school superintendent  in  Chicago  he  had  a  class 
of  girls  whom  he  gave  into  the  charge  of  a  teacher, 
a  gentleman  who,  as  he  thought,  would  be  able  to 
interest  them  and  keep  them  quiet.  It  was  before 
the  days  of  Mr.  Moody's  baptism  of  evangelistic 
fire,  and  when  he  did  not  press  the  matter  of  per- 
sonal religion  so  much  as  now.  One  day  this  teacher 
came  to   Mr.    Moody    quite   disheartened   and   sad. 


Hmmortal  Ibvmns  an&  tbeir  Stori? 


He  had  had  a  severe  attack  of  hemorrhag-e  of  the 
lungs,  and  his  physician  had  ordered  him  away  from 
Chicago  to  a  milder  climate.  He  feared  that  he 
was  nearing  the  end  of  his  life,  and  felt  greatly 
condemned  that  he  had  made  no  true  effort  to  save 
the  souls  of  his  class.  His  evident  despair  and  bit- 
ter remorse  over  failure  to  do  his  duty  aroused  Mr. 
Moody  to  propose  that  they  should  go  together  and 
visit  each  of  the  young  ladies.  They  took  a  car- 
riage, and  began  their  work,  the  teacher,  though 
very  feeble,  conversing  with  each  one  as  best  he 
could.  They  continued  this  direct  and  faithful 
effort  for  ten  days,  and  by  that  time  every  one  had 
yielded  her  heart  to  Christ ;  and  when  at  length  this 
was  accomplished,  they  were  all  gathered  for  a  fare- 
well meeting  at  the  teacher's  house,  and  there  they 
began  to  sing  this  hymn, — 

"  Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds 

Our  hearts  in  Christian  love; 
The  fellowship  of  kindred  minds 
Is  like  to  that  above." 

But  when  they  reached  the  verse, — 

"  When  we  asunder  part," 

their  hearts  were  too  full,  and  their  voices  failed. 
The  great  evangelist  declares  that  it  was  the  most 
affecting  meeting  he  ever  attended. 

The  next  day  the  teacher  was  to  depart   for  his 
218 


ITmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

new  home,  and  every  member  of  his  class,  with  the 
superintendent,  gathered  at  the  railway  station  to 
bid  him  a  final  good-bye.  The  faithful  teacher, 
happy  in  the  thought  of  the  glorious  success  which 
had  been  given  him  at  the  last,  stood  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  car,  pointing  upward  as  the  train  moved 
away,  thus  indicating  the  closing  verses  of  the 
hymn  their  tears  would  not  permit  them  to  sing, — 

"  This  glorious  hope  revives 
Our  courage  by  the  way; 
While  each  in  expectation  lives, 
And  longs  to  see  the  day 

"  From  sorrow,  toil,  and  pain. 
And  sin  we  shall  be  free ; 
And  perfect  love  and  friendship  reign 
Through  all  eternity. ' ' 


iig 


LAMB  OF  GOD. 

Him  that  cometh  to  me  I  zvill  in  no  zvise  cast  out. 
—  John  vi.,  37. 


CHARLOTTE  ELLIOTT 


LAMB  OF  GOD. 


William  Batchelber  BuADBrBT. 

— I-.— I— 


WOODWORTH.     L.  M. 

iiiliiili^pi^i^iiili 


Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea, 
But  that  thy  blood  was  shed  for  me. 
And  that  thou  bidd'st  me  come  to  thee, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come! 

Just  as  I  am,  and  waiting  not, 
To  rid  my  soul  of  one  dark  blot, 
To  thee,  whose  blood  can  cleanse  each  spot, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  I 

Just  as  I  am,  though  tossed  about 
With  many  a  conflict,  many  a  doubt, 
Fightings  and  fears  within,  without, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come! 

Just  as  I  am,  poor,  wretched,  blind, 
Sight,  riches,  healing  of  the  mind. 
Yea,  all  I  need,  in  thee  to  find, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come! 


Hmmortal  Ibpmns  ant)  tbeir  Stow 


Just  as  I  am,  thou  wilt  receive, 
Wilt  welcome,  pardon,  cleanse,  relieve! 
Because  th}-  promise  I  believe, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come! 

Just  as  I  am, —  thy  love  unknown 
Has  broken  every  barrier  down, — 
Now,  to  be  thine,  yea,  thine  alone, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come ! 

Just  as  I  am,  of  that  free  love 

The   breadth,   length,    depth,   and    height   to 

prove, 
Here  for  a  season,  then  above, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come ! 

— Cliarlottc  lilliott. 

Dr.  Caesar  Malan,  of  Geneva,  Switzerland,  was 
being  entertained  in  the  home  of  Miss  Elliott.  The 
young  lady  was  then  in  failing  health,  and  during 
an  evening  conversation  that  earnest  missionary 
asked  her  if  she  thought  herself  to  be  an  experimen- 
tal Christian.  She  was  at  first  inclined  to  resent  so 
personal  a  conversation,  and  replied  that  personal 
religion  was  a  matter  she  did  not  wish  to  discuss. 
Dr.  Malan  answered  with  great  gentleness  that  he 
would  not  pursue  the  matter  if  it  displeased  her, 
but  he  would  pray  that  she  might  become  a  Chris- 
tian. Some  days  afterwards  she  apologized  to  the 
minister  for  her  rude  answer,  and  said:  "  I  do  not 
know  how  to  find  Christ.      I  want  you  to  help  me." 

226 


Uminortal  1b\imus  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

Dr.  Malan's  reply  was,  "  Come  to  him  just  as  you 
are.'"  Neither  of  them  thought  at  the  time  that 
that  simple  reply  would  be  caught  up  in  song  by  the 
whole  Christian  world,  and  be  repeated  for  many 
years  to  come. 

It  was  this  reply  of  Dr.  Malan  to  her  personal 
question  that  first  led  to  her  own  conversion,  which 
was  Miss  Elliott's  inspiration  in  writing  her  famous 
hymn. 

The  hymn  has  been  so  constantly  used  and  is  so 
greatly  loved  that  there  are  many  incidents  telling 
of  comfort  received  from  it. 

One  Sunday  evening  in  the  summer  of  1895  Dr. 
D.  W.  Couch  went  into  his  pulpit  in  Lenox  Road 
Methodist  Church,  Brooklyn,  prepared  to  reason 
with  some  backsliders  who  had  promised  him  to  be 
present.  It  was  a  warm  evening,  and  raining. 
The  persons  he  had  expected  were  not  in  attend- 
ance. He  lingered  as  long  as  he  could  before 
opening  the  service,  and  knew  not  what  was  best  to 
do.  He  lifted  his  heart  to  God,  and  said,  "  Help 
me!  "  A  text  that  he  had  nsed  a  long  time  before 
came  to  his  mind  and  opened  up  in  a  lucid  manner. 
Turning  to  the  leader  of  the  choir  he  said:  "  I  shall 
be  glad  to  change  the  hymns.  "  He  replied :  "  Give 
us  something  familiar."  The  minister  arose  and 
announced,   "  Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea." 

The  church  windows  were  open.  A  young  law- 
yer, the  son  of  a  minister,  was  lying  in  his  room  in 

227 


Immortal  Ifopmns  au&  tbeir  Stor^ 

the  second  house  from  the  church,  the  windows  of 
his  room  open,  also.  He  was  listening  to  every 
word  of  the  hymn.  Dr.  Couch  did  not  know  at  the 
time  that  they  had  sung-  the  same  hymn  at  the 
young  people's  meeting,  in  the  room  below,  a  few 
minutes  before. 

The  next  morning  the  minister  received  a  note 
from  the  lawyer,  saying,  "  I  desire  to  see  you  as 
early  as  ten  o'clock  on  Tuesday  morning.  Do  not 
fail  to  be  here  at  that  time.  I  believe  I  have  some- 
thing important  to  tell  you." 

At  the  time  appointed  Dr.  Couch  was  in  his  room. 
The  yoimg  man  reached  out  his  hand,  and,  with 
eyes  full  of  tears  and  a  voice  choked  with  emotion, 
said,  "  I  v/ant  to  tell  you  that  I  have  found  Jesus 
Christ  to  be  the  Savior  of  my  soul." 

He  then  said,  "  Let  me  tell  you  how  it  came 
about.  Sunday  night  I  was  lying  here  thinking  of 
the  past  and  the  future,  reflecting  upon  my  father's 
teachings  and  my  mother's  prayers,  and  I  wished 
that  it  were  possible  for  me  to  be  a  Christian.  But, 
I  thought,  I  have  sinned  against  too  great  light ;  I 
have  resisted  the  best  influences  until  it  is  too  late. 
At  that  moment,  in  the  young  people's  meeting,, 
they  began  singing,  — 

'  Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea, 
But  that  thy  blood  was  shed  for  me. 
And  that  thou  bidd'st  me  come  to  thee, 
O  Lamb  of  (lod,  I  come!  ' 
228 


''Just  as  I  am.  f Jiou  ivili  receive. 
Wilt  Tve/foiiie,  pare/on,  cleanse,  relieve 


Hmmortal  1b\?mns  ant)  tbeir  Stor^ 


and  I  said,  '  Does  he  bid  me  come  now?  No;  it 
cannot  be.  I  remember  when  he  did,  but  I  have 
resisted  influences  for  good  too  long.  How  I  wish 
I  might  come !  '  And  while  struggling  with  my 
thoughts,  you  opened  the  meeting  in  the  audience 
room,  with,  — 

'  Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea. 
But  that  thy  blood  was  shed  for  me, 
And  that  thou  bidd'st  me  come  to  thee. ' 

I  said,  '  What  does  that  mean?  Does  he  bid  me 
come  to  him  after  all?  It  must  be  so.  That  hymn 
is  repeated  for  me ;  '  and  I  cried  out,  '  O  Lamb  of 
God,  I  come.      I  do  come  I  ' 

"  I  had  a  sleepless  night.  In  the  morning  he  ap- 
peared. My  room  was  filled  with  light,  my  soul 
with  joy.  I  knew  he  saved  me,  but  I  thought  I 
would  wait  until  the  next  day  before  telling  you, 
that  I  might  be  certain  that  it  was  not  emotion  only. 
But  now  I  know  that  I  am  his.  Won't  my  father 
and  mother  be  glad?  " 

We  can  never  know  how  many  wandering  souls, 
all  around  the  world,  have  found  that  sweet  hymn 
their  guiding  star  to  the  Mercy  Seat;  but  no  doubt 
Miss  Elliott's  brother.  Rev.  H.  V.  Elliott,  was  war- 
ranted in  speaking  as  he  did  with  reference  to  this 
hymn.  "  In  the  course  of  a  long  ministry,  I  hope  I 
have  been  permitted  to  see  some  fruit  of  my  labors, 
but  I  feel  that  far  more  has  been  done  by  a  single 
hymn  of  my  sister's.  " 

231 


AMERICA. 

A  pleasant  land^  a  o;podly  Jicritagc  of  tlie  Iiosts  of 
nations.  —  Jeremiah  iii.,  19. 


SAML'Ef.  lh',\.\C/S  sMirn 


AMERICA. 


AMERICA.     6,  4. 


Henrt  Caret. 


^m^^^^^^^ 


it-t 


'■-? 


!=ffrDzf=ff=«:r 


_|_.L|_ 


\-t-- 


=t»=fc 


-i — r- 


^^^- 


^^fei3|^8^1le^^^ir±Sll^^3i 


ei-te-n-:.^-^-:S: 


:?.  »^'  r-g:;-S=g-n-f^^^- 

m w     P  i — H-i 1 — 


My  countr}'!    'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died ! 
Land  of  the  Pilgrims"  pride! 
From  every  mountain-side 

Let  freedom  ring  I 

My  native  country,  thee  — 
Land  of  the  noble,  free  — 

Thy  name  I  love; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 


Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 


Immortal  1bv?mn5  anC)  tbciu  Stov^ 


Sweet  freedom's  song'; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake ; 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break  — 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God!  to  thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 

To  thee  we  sing; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King! 

— Samuel  Francis  Smith 

There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  destined  immor- 
tality of  this  hymn.  Although  it  has  never  been 
chosen  as  a  National  Hymn  by  any  action  of  Con- 
gress, or  proclamation  of  President,  it  has  been 
selected  by  a  still  greater  authority  —  the  people 
themselves.  To  the  great  public,  rich  or  poor,  it  is 
and  will  continue  to  be  the  National  Hymn  so  long 
as  American  liberty  shall  last. 

At  the  time  of  its  writing  its  avithor  was  a  young 
theological  student  in  Andover,  Massachusetts,  hav- 
ing but  recently  graduated  from  Harvard,  in  the 
same  class  with  the  famous  poet,  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes.  His  distinguished  classmate,  in  a  well 
known  class  poem  entitled  "  The  Boys,"  pays  a 
verv  neat  tribute  to  the  author  of  "  America. — " 


Ifmmortal  Ibpmns  an&  tbeir  Storv 

"And  there's  a  nice  youngster  of   excellent   pith, — 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  hiin  by  naming  him  Smith , 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free, — 
Just  read  on  his  inedal,  '  My  country,'  '  of  thee  I'  " 

To  be  the  author  of  such  a  hymn  is  enough  for  one 
man  to  carry  on  his  medal.  It  was  written  without 
the  slightest  thought  on  the  part  of  the  author  of  its 
ever  becoming  a  National  Hymn.  It  was  first  sung 
at  a  children's  Fourth  of  July  celebration  in  Park  V 
Street  Church,  Boston.  The  tune,  selected  for  it  by 
Mr  Smith  himself,  was  found  by  him  in  a  German 
music  book,  which  was  presented  to  him  by  Lowell 
Mason,  the  musician,  who  remarked  on  the  occasion 
of  its  gift,  "  You  can  read  German  books,  and  I 
cannot."  It  is  certainly  a  very  remarkable  coinci- 
dence that  he  should  have  selected  the  same  tune 
which  has  been  used  as  the  British  national  tune 
since  the  days  of  George  II. 

This  tune  has  a  disputed  history.  It  is  generally 
considered  to  be  an  amendment  made  by  Henry 
Carey,  near  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century,  to 
a  tune  composed  by  Dr.  John  Bull,  who  died  in 
1628.  When  the  tune  was  first  brought  to  England, 
the  publisher,  no  doubt  desiring  to  gain  Royal  at- 
tention by  it,  published  it  in  honor  of  George  II. 
French  critics,  however,  claim  that  the  original 
music  was  composed  by  Lulli,  and  that  it  was  sung 
by  three  hundred  young  ladies  before  Louis  XIV., 

239 


Ummortal  IfDvmns  an^  tbeir  Stori? 


at  Saint  Cyr,  where  Handel  foiind  it  in  1721.  If 
all  these  claims  are  correct,  this  has  been  in  some 
sense  a  national  tune  in  three  governments. 

No  other  hymn  is  used  so  widely  and  so  constant- 
ly in  the  public  schools  of  the  United  States.  The 
followin.!^  anonymous  verses  which  have  been  widely 
printed  contain  an  admirable  tribute  to  this  voicing;- 
of  the  patriotic  devotion  of  American  youth.  The 
verses  are  entitled  "Passing  the  Primary  School. " 

"  Again  each  morning  as  we  pass 
The  city's  streets  along, 
We  hear  the  voices  of  the  class 
Ring  out  the  nation's  song. 

"  The  small  boys'  treble  piping  clear, 
The  bigger  boys'  low  growl, 
And  from  the  boy  that  has  no  ear 
A  weird,  discordant  howl. 

"  With  swelling  hearts  we  hear  them  sing 
'  My  coiintry,  'tis  of  thee  ' — 
From  childish  throats  the  anthem  ring, 
'  Sweet  land  of  liberty'  ' 

"  Their  little  hearts  aglow  with  pride, 
Each  with  exultant  tongue 
Proclaims:   '  P^rom  every  mountain-side 
Let  Freedom's  song  be  sung  ' 
240 


'Limg  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  hght" 


Hmmortal  Ib^mns  auD  tbeir  Stor^ 

"  Let  him  who'd  criticise  the  time, 
Or  scout  the  harmony, 
Betake  him  to  some  other  clime  — 
No  patriot  is  he ! 

"  From  scenes  like  these  our  grandeur  springs, 
And  we  shall  e'er  be  strong, 
While  o'er  the  land  the  school-house  rings 
Each  day  with  Freedom's  song." 

Once  in  a  far  Western  city  the  school  board,  for 
the  time  being,  was  dominated  by  a  man  who  was 
very  bigoted  in  his  agnosticisin,  and  bitterly  re- 
sented anything  that  smacked  of  the  Bible  or  wor- 
ship of  God.  He  refused  to  permit  the  teachers  to 
read  the  Bible,  or  to  teach  the  children  religious 
hymns.  They,  being  earnest  Christians,  consoled 
themselves  and  in  a  measure  thwarted  his  unholy 
purpose  by  leading  their  scholars,  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning  and  the  last  in  the  evening,  in  the 
singing  of  America.  Even  the  agnostic  did  not 
dare  prohibit  that.  The  hope  of  American  civiliza- 
tion lies  most  of  all  in  maintaining  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people  the  love  of  liberty  and  reverent  confi- 
dence in  God  which  breathes  and  throbs  in  this 
noble  hymn.  Liberty-loving  Americans  rise  to  the 
highest  note  of  patriotism  and  lofty  devotion  as 
they  sing, — 

243 


•ffmrnortal  Ibvmns  auD  tbeir  Stor^ 


"  Our  fathers'  God!  to  thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 

To  thee  we  sing: 
Long  may  oiir  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  thy  might. 

Great  God,  our  King!  " 


244 


DESIRING    TO  PRAISE    WORTHILY. 

Hitherto    hath    the    Lord   Jiclt^cd   us. —  i    Samuel 
vii.,   12. 


ROBERT  ROHISSOy 


DESIRING   TO  PRAISE  WORTHILY. 


NETTIiETON.     8,  7.  D. 


g^^^g^Hg 


^=?^ 


:SEu=?i 


I       I 

■m — m — • — *- 


Unknown. 
Fine. 


3-1 


t=t=Cz: 


U| ,_. 


Ei^:^3 


1^      I        I        fc.  p«-.  tf      I        I        Pk         D.  C. 


Come,  thou  fount  of  every  blessinu^, 

Tune  my  heart  to  sing  thy  grace : 
Streams  of  mercy,  never  ceasing, 

Call  for  songs  of  loudest  praise. 
Teach  me  some  celestial  measure, 

Sung  by  ransomed  hosts  above ; 
Oh,  the  vast,  the  boundless  treasure 

Of  my  Lord's  unchanging  love! 

Here  I  raise  my  Ebenezer; 

Hither  by  thy  help  I'm  come; 
And  I  hope,  by  thy  good  pleasure. 

Safely  to  arrive  at  home. 
Jesus  sought  me  when  a  stranger, 

Wandering  from  the  fold  of  God , 
He,  to  save  my  soul  from  danger. 

Interposed  his  precious  blood. 


249 


■flmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

Oh  I  to  grace  how  great  a  debtor 

Daily  I'm  constrained  to  be; 
Let  that  grace,  Lord,  like  a  fetter, 

Bind  my  wandering  soul  to  thee. 
Prone  to  wander,  Lord,  I  feel  it ; 

Prone  to  leave  the  God  I  love ; 
Here's  my  heart,  Lord,  take  and  seal  it, 

Seal  it  from  thy  courts  above. 

Oh,  that  day  when,  freed  from  sinning, 

I  shall  see  thy  lovely  face; 
Robed  then  in  blood-washed  linen, 

Now  I'll  sing  thy  sovereign  grace. 
Come,  dear  Lord,  no  longer  tarry, 

Take  my  raptured  soul  away ; 
Send  thine  angels  down  to  carry 

Me  to  realms  of  endless  day. 

If  thou  ever  didst  discover 

Unto  me  the  Promised  Land, 
Bid  me  now  the  streams  pass  over. 

On  the  heavenly  border  stand. 
Help  surmount  whate'er  opposes. 

Unto  thy  embraces  fly; 
Speak  the  word  thou  didst  to  Moses, 

Bid  me  get  me  up  and  die. 

— Robert  Robinson. 

The  author  of  this  hymn  was  won  to  a   Christian 
life  under  the  preaching  of  George  Whitefield.    Out 

250 


''Prone  to  zuatiiier.  Lord,  I  feel  it; 
Prone  to  leave  the  Cod  I  love'' 


Ilmmortal  Ib^mns  auD  tbeir  Stor^ 

of  mere  curiosity  he  went  to  hear  the  great  evangel- 
ist, and  afterwards  wrote  to  him,  "  I  confess  it  was 
to  sp3^  the  nakedness  of  the  land  I  came  —  to  pity 
the  folly  of  the  preacher,  the  infatuation  of  the 
hearers,  and  to  abhor  the  doctrine.  I  went  pitying 
the  poor  deluded  Methodists,  but  came  away  envy- 
ing their  happiness." 

This  hymn,  which  with  one  exception  is  the  only 
one  of  his  authorship  that  has  lived  to  our  time,  has, 
no  doubt,  had  its  great  power  in  the  personal  ele- 
ment which  pervades  it.  His  personal  experience 
he  portrays  in  the  second  verse, — 

"  Jesus  sought  me  when  a  stranger. 
Wandering  from  the  fold  of  God; 
He,  to  save  my  soul  from  danger. 
Interposed  his  precious  blood." 

There  is  a  very  touching  story  connected  with 
this  hymn  and  its  author,  showing  that  a  hymn, 
which  has  burst  forth  from  a  loving  Christian  heart 
as  naturally  as  a  fountain  gurgles  from  the  moun- 
tain side,  may  afterwards  come  back  as  a  thorn  of 
remorse  to  remind  the  author  of  the  spiritual  exile 
into  which  he  has  wandered. 

Long  before  the  railroads,  when  public  travel  in 
England  was  largely  by  stagecoach,  a  lady  and  gen- 
tleman who  were  strangers  to  each  other  were  the 
only  travelers  on  the  inside  of  one  of  these  coaches. 
The  lady  had  been  for  some  time  poring  over  a  single 

253 


Ilmmortal  Ibpmns  an&  tf3eir  Stor^ 

page  of  a  little  book  to  which  she  referred  fre- 
quently. Turning,  at  length,  to  her  companion, 
who  did  not  seem  to  be  engaged  in  his  attention 
other  than  to  note  the  changing  scenery  through 
which  they  were  passing,  she  held  the  open  page 
toward  him,  and  said:  "  May  I  ask  your  attention  to 
this  hymn,  and  ask  you  to  favor  me  with  your 
opinion  of  it?     Do  you  know  it?  " 

The  hymn  to  which  she  had  called  his  attention 
was, — 

"  Come,  thou  fount  of  every  blessing.  " 

The  gentleman  addressed  glanced  down  the  page, 
and  his  face  flushed  with  confusion  as  he  attempted 
to  excuse  himself  from  conversation  on  the  merits 
of  the  hymn;  but  the  lady  ventured  on  another  ap- 
peal. 

"  That  hymn  has  given  me  so  much  pleasure," 
she  said.  "  Its  sentiments  so  touch  me;  indeed,  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  much  good  it  has  done  me. 
Don't  you  think  it  very  good?  " 

"  Madam  I  "  said  the  stranger,  bursting  into  tears, 
"  I  am  the  poor  unhappy  man  who  wrote  that  hymn 
many  years  ago,  and  I  would  give  a  thousand 
worlds,  if  I  had  them,  to  enjoy  the  feelings  I  then 
had." 

Robert  Ilall  said  of  Robinson:  "  He  had  a  music- 
al voice,  and  was  master  of  all  its  intonations;  he 
had  wonderful  self-passion,  and  could  say  icJiat  he 

254 


■ffmmortal  Ib^mns  auD  tbetr  Storp 

pleased,  xvhen  he  pleased,  and  Jioii'  he  pleased." 
Like  many  another  brilliant  and  versatile  man,  he 
ran  a  wandering  course  and  was  ' '  unstable  as 
water. ' ' 

It  was  doubtless  a  meditation  on  this  sad  frailty 
of  his  own  nature  that  led  him  to  write  with  pray- 
erful tenderness,  the  verse, — 

"  Oh!  to  grace  how  great  a  debtor 

Daily  I'm  constrained  to  be; 
Let  that  grace.  Lord,  like  a  fetter. 

Bind  my  wandering  soul  to  thee. 
Prone  to  wander.  Lord,  I  feel  it ; 

Prone  to  leave  the  God  I  love ; 
Here's  my  heart.  Lord,  take  and  seal  it. 

Seal  it  from  thy  courts  above. ' ' 


255 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE    WORLD. 

In  the  inor)iiiig  soio  thy  seed,  and  in  the  evening 
withhold  not  thine  hand:  for  thou  hiowest  not 
xvJicthcr  shall  prosper,  either  this  or  that,  or  zvhether 
they  both  shall  be  alike  good. —  Ecclesiastes  xi. ,  6. 


fA MES  MOXTGOMER ) ' 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE  WORLD. 


BOYLSTON.     S.  M. 


Lowell  Mason. 


^eE^Se^E^Ei 


i5=i«; 


I  -»-  -m-        -(g'- 


=^^^3|E 


:t=i 


— l=:^3C3^3^i 


IT  ^-   -^   -*-  •  •        I 


. --e-r^e 


^^^s^^^m 


Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed ; 

At  eve  hold  not  thy  hand ; 
To  doubt  and  fear  give  thou  no  heed, 

Broadcast  it  o'er  the  land. 

Beside  all  waters  sow, 

The  highway  furrows  stock, 

Drop  it  where  thorns  and  thistles  grow, 
Scatter  it  on  the  rock. 

The  good,  the  fruitful  ground. 

Expect  not  here  nor  there, 
O'er  hill  and  dale,  by  plots  'tis  found; 

Go  forth,  then,  everywhere. 

Thou  know' St  not  which  shall  thrive, 

The  late  or  early  sown ; 
Grace  keeps  the  precious  germ  alive, 

When  and  wherever  strown : 
261 


Ifmmortal  IbPmns  ant)  tbeir  Stor\? 


And  duly  shall  appear, 

In  verdure,  beauty,  strength, 
The  tender  blade,  the  stalk,  the  ear, 

And  the  full  corn  at  length. 

Thou  canst  not  toil  in  vain : 

Cold,  heat,  and  moist,  and  dry, 

Shall  foster  and  mature  the  grain 
For  garners  in  the  sky. 

Thence,  when  the  glorious  end, 

The  day  of  God,  shall  come. 
The  angel  reapers  shall  descend, 

And  heaven  cry,  "  Harvest  Home!  " 

— J  a  nics  Mo)i  t^s^o  mcry. 

Montgomery  has  been  called  the  Cowper  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Like  Cowper,  he  contributed 
many  beautiful  sacred  songs  so  inspired  with  Chris- 
tian love  and  so  free  from  service  to  any  special 
dogma  that  they  have  won  universal  popularity. 
As  Frederick  Saunders  says:  "  Being  inspired  by 
the  religion  of  love,  they  are  eminently  designed 
to  diffuse  the  love  of  religion." 

Montgomery  declared  that  his  love  of  poetry  was 
kindled  in  his  heart  by  hearing  Blair's  Gnxvc 
read  to  him  in  his  school  days.  He  began  writing 
poetry  at  a  very  early  age,  and  contint;ed  it  through 
his  long  and  useful  life.  It  has  been  said  of  him 
that  "  his  history  affords  a  fine  example  of  virtuous 

262 


IFmmortal  Ib^mns  anC>  tbeir  Stors 


and  successful  perseverance,  and  of  genius  devoted 
to  pure  and  noble  ends,  — not  a  feverish,  tumultu- 
ous, and  splendid  career,  like  that  of  some  greater 
poetical  heirs  of  immortality,  but  a  course  ever 
brightening  as  it  proceeded, —  calm,  useful,  and 
happy. ' ' 

The  hymn  we  are  studying  had  its  inspiration,  as 
we  would  naturally  imagine,  in  the  fields.  One 
day  in  the  month  of  February,  1832,  the  poet  was 
traveling  with  a  friend  between  Gloucester  and 
Tewkesbury,  when  he  noticed  some  women  and 
girls  working  in  a  field  lately  plowed.  They  were 
stooping  down  in  rows,  but  they  could  not  be  weed- 
ing. What  were  they  doing?  Then  he  was  told 
that  their  work  was  called  "  dibbling,"  and  that  in- 
stead of  throwing  in  the  grain  broadcast  over  the 
field,  holes  were  pricked  in  straight  lines,  and  into 
each  of  these  holes  two  or  three  grains  of  wheat 
were  dropped. 

"  Dibbling  is  unpoetical,  and  unpicturesque, "  said 
Montgomery.  ' '  Give  me  broadcast  sowing. ' '  And 
then  he  began  to  think  about  sowing  the  good 
seed  —  the  dibbling  of  Sunday-school  teaching  and 
visiting,  here  a  little,  there  a  little,  and  of  the 
broadcast  sowing  of  the  preacher.  For  James 
Montgomery  to  have  a  new  idea  was  to  have  a  new 
poem,  and  so  gradually  his  thoughts  shaped  them- 
selves into  verses,  and  the  hymn, — 

"  Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed," 
263 


•flmmortal  Ib^mns  an^  tbeit  Stor^ 

was  born.  It  was  first  sung  at  the  Sheffield  Sunday 
School  Union,  at  a  Whitsuntide  gathering,  in  1832, 
but  has  found  its  way  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

James  Montgomery's  earlier  days  were  often 
troublous  and  disturbed  by  persecution ,  for,  gentle 
and  sweet  as  are  many  of  his  hymns,  this  contem- 
plative hymn-writer  had  a  conscience  as  unbending 
and  a  spirit  as  full  of  fire  as  our  own  James  Russell 
Lowell.  His  opposition  to  slavery  and  other  wrongs 
of  his  time  brought  upon  him  political  antagonism 
which  consigned  him  to  a  dungeon.  A  volume  of 
his  poems  was  published  under  the  unique  and 
significant  title  of  Prison  A)nusc)iic)its. 

II is  personal  religious  experience  is  supposed  to 
have  been  told  in  his  "  Stranger  and  His  Friend," 
which  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  sacred 
poems:  — 

"  A  poor  wayfaring  man  of  grief 

Hath  often  crossed  me  on  my  way, 
Who  sued  so  humbly  for  relief, 

That  I  could  never  answer  '  Nay. ' 
I  had  no  power  to  ask  his  name. 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came. 
Yet  there  was  something  in  his  eye 
That  won  my  love,  I  know  not  why. 

Once  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread. 
He  entered,  not  a  word  he  spake, — 

Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread. 
I  gave  him  all;  he  blessed  it,  brake 
264 


Ilmmortal  Ibpmns  ant)  tbeir  Story 

And  ate, —  but  gave  me  part  again. 
Mine  was  an  angel's  portion  then; 
For  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste, 
That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 

"  I  spied  him  where  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock ;  his  strength  was  gone ; 

The  heedless  water  mocked  his  thirst, 
He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on; 

I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up ; 

Thrice  from  the  stream  he  drained  my  cup ; 

Dipt,  and  returned  it  running  o'er. 

I  drank,  and  never  thirsted  more. 

"  'Twas  night;  the  floods  were  out;  it  blew 
A  winter  hurricane  aloof; 
I  heard  his  voice  abroad,  and  flew 
To  bid  him  welcome  to  my  roof. 
I  warmed,  I  clothed,  I  cheered  my  guest, 
Laid  him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest. 
Then  made  the  hearth  my  bed,  and  seemed 
In  Eden's  garden  while  I  dreamed. 

"  Stript,  wounded,  beaten,  nigh  to  death, 
I  found  him  by  the  highway  side ; 
I  roused  his  pulse,  brought  back  his  breath, 

Revived  his  spirit  and  supplied 
Care,  oil,  refreshment ;  he  was  healed. 
I  had  myself  a  wound  concealed, 
But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart, 
And  Peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart. 
267 


Ilmmortal  Ibi^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 


"  In  prison  cell  I  saw  him  next,  condemned 
To  meet  a  traitor's  death  at  morn; 

The  tide  of  lying  tongues  I  stemmed, 

And  honored  him  'midst  shame  and  scorn. 

My  friendship's  utmost  zeal  to  try 

He  asked  if  I  for  him  would  die? 

The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  ran  chill, 

But  the  free  spirit  cried,   '  I  will. ' 

"  Then  in  a  moment  to  my  view 

The  stranger  darted  from  disguise ; 

The  tokens  in  his  hands  I  knew. 
My  Saviour  stood  before  my  eyes! 

He  spake  and  my  poor  name  he  named: 

'  Of  me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed ; 

These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be; 

Fear  not,  thou  did'st  them  unto  me.'  " 

When  Montgomery  was  drawing  near  the  close 
of  life,  his  friend,  Dr.  Holland,  was  reading  to  him 
from  his  own  hymns.  Noticing  that  the  poet  was 
visibly  affected,  he  desisted.  "  Read  on,"  said  the 
dying  poet,  ' '  I  am  glad  to  hear  you :  the  words  re- 
call the  feelings  which  first  suggested  them ;  and  it 
is  good  for  me  to  feel  affected  and  humbled  by  the 
terms  in  which  I  have  endeavored  to  provide  for 
the  expression  of  similar  religious  experience,  in 
others.  As  all  my  hymns  embody  some  portions  of 
the  history  of  the  joys  or  sorrows,  the  hopes  and 
the  fears,  of  this  poor  heart,  so  I  cannot  doubt  that 

26S 


Hmmortal  1bv>mns  an^  tbeir  Stor^ 


they  will  be  found  an  acceptable  vehicle  of  expres- 
sion of  the  experience  of  many  of  my  fellow-crea- 
tures who  may  be  similarly  exercised  during  the 
pilgrimage  of  their  Christian  life." 


269 


OUR  PASCHAL  LAMB. 

WortJiy  is  the  Lamb  that  zcas  slain  to  receive 
power ^  and  riches,  and  wisdom,  and  strength,  and 
honour,  and  glory,  and  blessing.  — Revelation  v.,  12. 


''Help,  yf  bright  ixngclic  spirits. 
Bring  your  sitwetest,  iiol'ti-st  tnys 


OUR  PASCHAL  LAMB. 


AUTUMN.  8,  7.  D. 

dc63rd=zfa:d. 


Spanish  Melody.    Feom  Mabechio. 


i^^^^- 


^ 


Hail!  thou  once  despised  Jesus! 

Hail!  thou  Galilean  King! 
Thou  didst  suffer  to  release  us ; 

Thou  didst  free  salvation  bring. 
Hail !  thou  universal  vSaviour ! 

Bearer  of  our  sin  and  shame ; 
By  thy  merits  we  find  favour: 

Life  is  given  through  thy  name. 

Paschal  Lamb,  by  God  appointed, 
All  our  sins  on  thee  were  laid; 

By  Almighty  love  anointed. 

Thou  hast  full  atonement  made. 


Hmmortal  1bv>mns  auD  tbeir  Stor^ 


Every  sin  may  be  forgiven, 

Through  the  virtue  of  thy  blood; 

Opened  is  the  gate  of  heaven: 

Peace  is  made  'twixt  man  and  God. 

Jesus,  hail  I  enthron'd  in  glory, 

There  forever  to  abide ; 
All  the  heavenly  hosts  adore  thee. 

Seated  at  thy  Father's  side. 
There  for  sinners  thou  art  pleading ; 

There  thou  dost  our  place  prepare; 
Ever  for  us  interceding, 

Till  in  glory  we  appear. 

Worship,  honour,  power,  and  blessing, 

Thou  art  worthy  to  receive ; 
Loudest  praises,  without  ceasing. 

Meet  it  is  for  us  to  give. 
Help,  ye  bright  angelic  spirits. 

Bring  your  sweetest,  noblest  lays ; 
Help  to  sing  our  Saviour's  merits, 

Help  to  chant  Immanuel's  praise. 

Soon  we  shall  with  those  in  glory 

His  transcendent  grace  relate ; 
Gladly  sing  th'  amazing  stor}' 

Of  his  dying  love  so  great. 
In  that  blessed  contemplation. 

We  for  evermore  shall  dwell, 
Crown'd  with  bliss  and  consolation, 

Such  as  none  below  can  tell. 

— Joint  Bakeivcll. 


ifmmortal  Ib^mns  an&  tF^eir  Stor^ 


This  is  the  only  hymn  of  Bakewell's  that  has  sur- 
vived the  century  and  come  down  to  our  day,  buL 
this  beautiful  salutation  to  Christ  is  so  full  of  solemn 
pathos  as  well  as  poetic  beauty  that  Christians  every- 
where have  written  it  in  their  books  and  on  their 
hearts  until  its  immortality  is  assured.  The  hymn 
is  so  truly  catholic  that  it  has  crossed  all  denomina- 
tional lines,  and  voices  the  love  and  devotion  of  all 
who  honor  Christ. 

The  story  is  told  of  an  old  lover  of  this  hymn, 
that  he  had  been  sitting  listening  to  a  devoted 
Christian  woman,  who,  amidst  great  infirmity,  was 
reclining  on  her  couch,  chanting  in  sweet  under- 
tones,— 

"  Jesus,  hail!  enthron'd  in  glory, 

There  forever  to  abide ; 
All  the  heavenly  hosts  adore  thee, 

Seated  at  thy  Father's  side. 
There  for  sinners  thou  art  pleading; 

There  thou  dost  our  place  prepare; 
Ever  for  us  interceding. 

Till  in  glory  we  appear." 

Breaking  off  her  song  for  a  moment,  she  turned  and 
said,  "  Whose  hymn  is  that?  It  is  a  precious  one  to 
me.  It  keeps  me  the  whole  day  sometimes,  and 
through  wakeful  hours  at  night,  too,  in  communion 
with  my  glorified  Savior.      Who  wrote  it?  " 

277 


Hmmortal  Hd^iuus  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 

"It  was  written,"  was  the  reply,  "in  1760,  by 
John  Bakewell. " 

"  Bakewell,  —  Bakewell!  Surely  it  may  be  the 
same  as  wrote  a  letter  which  I  have  read  in  one  of 
the  old  magazines.  I  think  the  letter  is  in  the  vol- 
ume for  1816.  Just  take  it  down  from  the  shelf  yon- 
der and  read  it.  It  is  about  Christian  brotherly 
love. " 

The  letter  was  read.  The  good  woman  fixed  upon 
some  paragraphs  as  the  more  impressive  to  her 
mind;  this  among  the  rest:  "I  took  the  liberty 
of  giving  you  my  thoughts  on  brotherly  love,  and 
the  unity  which  ought  to  subsist  between  the  chil- 
dren of  God.  I  have  been  confirmed  in  my  opinions 
on  these  subjects  by  reading  the  fourth  chapter  of 
the  Epistle  to  the  Ephesians.  This  one  point,  the 
unity  of  the  spirit,  Paul  presses  with  seven  argu- 
ments. It  is  as  if  the  Apostle  should  reason  thus: 
If  the  church,  your  mother,  be  but  one;  God,  your 
Father,  one ;  Christ,  your  Lord,  one ;  the  Holy 
Ghost,  your  Comforter,  one;  if  there  be  but  one 
hope,  one  faith,  and  one  baptism,  it  is  certainly  your 
bounden  duty  to  live  together  in  love  as  one,  en- 
deavoring to  keep  the  unity  of  the  spirit  in  the  bond 
of  peace. " 

"Now,  I  like  that,"  said  the  good  woman;  "I 
like  the  spirit  of  it  as  well  as  the  argument.  Is  the 
writer  the  same  as  he  who  wrote  the  hymni*  " 

"Yes." 

27S 


flmmortal  Ibvmns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 


"  I  am  g-lad  to  know  that.  It  is  so  like  the  man 
who  taught  me  to  sing, — 

"  Soon  we  shall  with  those  in  glory 

His  transcendent  grace  relate; 
Gladly  sing  th'  amazing  story 

Of  his  dying  love  so  great. 
In  that  blessed  contemplation 

We  for  evermore  shall  dwell, 
Crown'd  with  bliss  and  consolation, 

Such  as  none  below  can  tell." 

Bakewell  lived  to  be  ninety-eight  years  old,  hav- 
ing preached  the  Gospel,  at  the  time  of  his  death, 
for  full  seventy  years.  His  sermons  have  long  since 
passed  from  the  memory  of  men,  but  his  beautiful 
hymn  will  carry  his  name  and  the  fragrance  of  his 
reverent,  loving  soul  from  age  to  age. 


279 


NEARER    TO  GOD. 

And  Jacob  .  .  .  took  of  tJie  stones  of  that  placi\ 
and  put  thein  for  his  pilloius,  ....  and  Jic  dreamed^ 
and  behold  a  ladder  set  up  on  the  earth,  and  the  top 
of  it  reached  to  heaven:  and  behold  the  angels  of  God 
ascending  and  descending  on  it.  And,  behold,  the 
Lord  stood  above  it.  —  Genesis  xxviii. ,  10-13. 


NEARER   TO  GOD. 


BETHANY.     6,  4,  6. 


Lowell  Mason. 


-^-=^ 


-n=m-^ 


-=*-^- 


->r  I     -^ — ^  \—^ 


iE^z:::^ 


llE=^ 


^r- 


g-i^i 


iq;;^ 


:^^:J: 


D.  S. 


:^— Sz=:S: 


:ffir^- 


Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee! 

Though  like  the  wanderer. 
The  sun  gone  down, 

Darkness  be  over  me. 
My  rest  a  stone, — 

Yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 
Steps  unto  heaven ; 
285 


IFmmortal  1F?\?mn5  au5  tbeir  Storv? 

All  that  thou  sendest  me, 

In  mercy  given ; 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Then  with  my  waking  thoughts 

Bright  with  thy  praise, 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 

Bethel  I'll  raise; 
So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Or  if,  on  joyful  wing 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

Upward  I  fly, — 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

— Sarah  Floiccr  Adams. 

This  hymn,  which  has  not  only  foimd  its  way  into 
all  hymn  books  of  the  English  tongue,  but  has  been 
translated  into  inany  foreign  languages,  was  writ- 
ten as  a  record  of  personal  religious  experience  and 
as  a  memorial  of  gratitude  l)ccausc  the  author's 
prayers  had  been  answered.  Like  many  another 
hymn  that  has  become  famous  and  universally  help- 


lU^'v 


Ilmmortal  1b\?mns  au&  tbeir  Storp 

ful,  it  was  the  upspringing  of  gratitude  in  a  rever- 
ent soul,  and  was  written  without  any  expectation 
that  it  would  become  a  popular  hymn. 

It  is  a  most  beautiful  study  of  Jacob's  vision  at 
Luz.  In  the  second  verse  the  j^oung  wandering 
Jacob,  going  out  from  home  sad  at  heart,  with  a 
burden  of  sin  upon  him  and  all  the  future  looking 
dark,  and  yet  longing  somehow  to  find  his  way  back 
to  God,  is  very  strikingly  portrayed, — 

"  Though  like  the  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down. 
Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone, — 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 

Nearer  to  thee!" 

And  nothing  could  be  finer  than  the  spiritualiz- 
ing of  the  old  Scriptural  record  which  tells  the  story 
of  Jacob's  waking  in  the  morning,  and  realizing 
that  even  that  lonely  place  was  a  Bethel  to  him 
because  of  the  presence  of  God.  Multitudes  of 
burdened  and  sorrowing  souls,  lying  down  lonely 
in  their  desert,  have  been  encouraged  to  mount  up 
as  with  wings  on  her  splendid  song,  — 

"  Then  with  my  waking  thoughts 
Bright  with  thy  praise. 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Bethel  I'll  raise; 

287 


flmmortal  IfDvmus  an&  tbeir  5tor\) 


So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee!  " 

This  hymn  is  such  a  universal  favorite  that  there 
are  many  incidents  telling  of  the  good  cheer  and 
comfort  it  has  brought  in  times  of  trial.  Bishop 
Marvin  relates  that  during  the  War  of  the  Rebellion 
he  was  once  traveling  in  a  wild  region  in  Arkansas. 
He  had  been  driven  from  his  home  by  the  Union 
troops,  and  was  greatly  depressed.  But  as  he  drew 
near  a  dilapidated  log  cabin  he  heard  some  one 
singing,  "  Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee.  "  He  got  down 
from  his  horse  and  entered  the  house.  There  he 
found  an  old  widow  woman  singing  in  the  midst  of 
such  poverty  as  he  had  never  before  seen.  His  fears 
and  despondency  vanished  and  he  went  on  his  way, 
happy  and  trustful  because  of  the  faith  which  he 
had  beheld  and  the  hymn  which  he  had  heard. 

After  the  battle  of  Fort  Donelson,  as  the  hospital 
corps  went  over  the  field  searching  for  the  wounded, 
they  discovered  a  little  drummer-boy,  one  of  the 
many  lads  who  ought  to  have  been  at  home  with 
their  mothers,  but  who  in  those  awful  days  of  car- 
nage found  their  way  in  scores  and  hundreds  to  the 
front.  He  had  been  fearfully  wounded,  one  arm 
having  been  entirely  carried  away  by  a  cannon  ball. 
The  brave  boy  died  before  they  could  carry  him  off 
the  field,  but  he  kept  up  a  cheerful  heart  and  com- 

288 


Ifmmortal  1b\:?mn5  an^  tbeir  Stori? 


forted  himself  by  singing  Mrs.  Adams'  precious 
hymn.  Up  from  the  blood-stained  battle-field,  and 
through  the  murky  clouds  of  powder-smoke,  rang 
the  half -childish  voice,  as  he  sang, — 

"  There  let  the  way  appear 

Steps  unto  heaven ; 
All  that  thou  sendest  me 

In  mercy  given ; 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee !  ' ' 

This  hymn  is  always  sung  by  caravans  of  pilgrims 
from  Christian  lands  when,  in  making  the  tour  of 
Palestine,  they  camp  at  Bethel.  It  is  surely  a 
sweet  immortality  for  this  Christian  woman  that 
her  song  should  thus  linger  about  the  Holy  Land, 
the  stories  of  which  were  so  dear  to  her,  and  con- 
tinue to  interpret  the  worshipful  thoughts  of  Chris- 
tian travelers  long  after  she  has  gone  to  her  re- 
ward. 

The  author  died  young,  and  the  prayer  of  her 
hymn  was  answered,  in  that  she  passed  away  from 
earth  with  trustful  song  upon  her  lips,  thus  fulfilling 
the  glad  expectation  of  the  last  verse  of  her  noblest 
poem, — 

"  Or  if,  on  joyful  wing 
Cleaving  the  sky, 
2S9 


Hmmortal  Ibgmns  ant>  tbeir  Storg 


Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

Upward  I  fly, — 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be. 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee !  ' ' 


290 


''STAND   UP  FOR  JES US. ' ' 
Having  done  all,  to  stand. —  Ephesians  vi.,  13. 


GEORGE  DUFFIELD 


"  STAND  UP  FOR  JESUSy 


WEBB.     7,  6. 


i=f 


ist^^i 


0zmzrzM 


George  James  Webb. 


^^^^^^ 


^^m^^^^^^^ 


D.  S. 


Stand  up!  —  stand  up  for  Jesus! 

Ye  soldiers  of  the  cross ; 
Lift  high  his  royal  banner, 

It  must  not  suffer  loss. 
From  victory  unto  victory 

His  army  shall  he  lead 
Till  every  foe  is  vanquish 'd, 

And  Christ  is  Lord  indeed. 

Stand  up!  —  stand  up  for  Jesus! 

The  solemn  watchword  hear; 
If  while  ye  sleep  he  suffers, 

Away  with  shame  and  fear; 
Where'er  ye  meet  with  evil, 

Within  you  or  without, 
Charge  for  the  God  of  Battles, 

And  put  the  foe  to  rout ! 
295 


Hmmortal  Ibvmns  an&  tbeir  Story 

Stand  up!  —  stand  up  for  Jesus! 

The  trumpet  call  obey; 
Forth  to  the  mighty  conflict, 

In  this  his  glorious  day. 
Ye  that  are  men  now  serve  him," 

Against  unnumbered  foes; 
Let  courage  rise  with  danger, 

And  strength  to  strength  oppose. 

Stand  up!  —  stand  up  for  Jesus! 

Stand  in  his  strength  alone , 
The  arm  of  flesh  will  fail  you, 

Ye  dare  not  trust  your  own. 
Put  on  the  Gospel  armor, 

Each  piece  put  on  with  prayer; 
Where  duty  calls,  or  danger, 

Be  never  wanting  there! 

Stand  up!  — stand  up  for  Jesus! 

Each  soldier  to  his  post ; 
Close  up  the  broken  column. 

And  shout  through  all  the  host! 
Make  good  the  loss  so  heavy, 

In  those  that  still  remain. 
And  prove  to  all  around  you 

That  death  itself  is  gain ! 

Stand  up!  — stand  up  for  Jesus! 

The  strife  will  not  be  long ; 
This  day  the  noise  of  battle, 

The  next  the  victor's  song. 
296 


Hmmorrat  Ibpmns  ant)  tbeir  Storg 

To  him  that  overcometh, 

A  crown  of  life  shall  be  ; 
He  with  the  King  of  Glory 

Shall  reign  eternally! 

— George  Diiffield. 

This  is  the  most  stirring  and  martial  of  all  the 
hymns  sung  by  the  Christian  Church  in  America. 
Its  inspiration  was  a  most  tragic  occurrence.  The 
words  chosen  for  the  title,  and  repeated  as  the 
trumpet-call  at  the  beginning  of  every  verse,  were 
the  dying  message  of  Rev.  Dudley  A.  Tyng  to  the 
Young  Men's  Christian  Association  and  the  minis- 
ters associated  with  them  in  the  Noon-day  Prayer- 
meeting  during  the  great  revival  of  1858.  commonly 
known  as  the  "Work  of  God  in  Philadelphia." 
Mr.  Tyng  had  been  the  magnetic  and  consecrated 
leader  of  that  historic  revival  campaign.  On  the 
Sabbath  before  his  death,  he  preached,  in  the  im- 
mense edifice  known  as  Jaynes'  Hall,  a  sermon 
which,  judged  by  the  greatest  test  of  all  —  the 
number  of  souls  won  to  Christ  —  was,  perhaps,  the" 
most  successful  ever  preached  in  America.  His 
text  was,  "  Go  now,  ye  that  are  men,  and  serve  the 
Lord."  There  were  five  thousand  men  listening  to 
his  fervent  words,  and  it  was  believed  that  fully  one 
thousand  then  and  there  yielded  their  wills  to  serve 
Christ  and  went  away  to  lead  Christian  lives. 

The  following  Wednesday  the  young  minister  left 
297 


tfmmortal  1f3\^mu9  anb  tbeir  Stor^ 


his  study  for  a  moment,  and  went  to  the  barn  floor, 
where  a  mule  was  at  work  on  a  horsepower  ma- 
chine for  shelling  corn.  Patting  the  animal  on  the 
neck,  the  sleeve  of  Mr.  Tyng's  silk  study-gown 
caught  in  the  cogs  of  the  wheel,  and  he  was  so 
fearfully  injured  that  he  died  within  a  few  hours. 
It  is  doubtful  if  there  was  ever  so  great  a  lamenta- 
tion over  the  death  of  a  private  citizen. 

When  told  by  his  friends  that  he  could  not  live, 
he  turned  to  his  physician  and  said:  "  Doctor, 
my  friends  have  given  me  up ;  they  say  that  I  am 
dying;  is  that  your  opinion?"  The  doctor  replied 
in  the  affirmative.  "  Then,  doctor,  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you.  I  have  loved  you  much  as  a 
friend;  I  long  to  love  you  as  a  brother  in  Jesus 
Christ.     Let  me  entreat  you  now  to  come  to  Jesus.  " 

His  father,  who  was  also  a  distinguished  minis- 
ter, asked  if  he  had  any  message  to  his  brethren  in 
the  ministry?  He  replied,  "  Father,  stand  up  for 
Jesus.     Tell  them  all  to  stand  up  for  Jesus. "' 

The  Sunday  following  the  death  of  Mr.  Tyng, 
Dr.  George  Duffield  preached  from  Ephesians,  sixth 
chapter,  and  fourteenth  verse,  "  Stand  therefore, 
having  your  loins  girt  about  with  truth,  and  having 
on  the  breastplate  of  righteousness."  For  a  con- 
cluding exhortation  he  had  composed  this  hymn, 
which  will  be  his  greatest  claim  to  immortality. 
The  superintendent  of  the  Sabbath-school  had  it 
printed  on  a  little  slip  for  the  children ;  a  stray  copy 

29S 


Stand  !/p.'—s/a/!(f  up  for  Ji'Si/x.' 
Tin-  iriniipct  call  ohcy" 


IFmmortal  Ib^mns  ant)  tbeir  Stor^ 

found  its  way  into  a  newspaper,  and  it  went  on,  and 
on,  until  it  has  been  printed  in  all  the  leading  lan- 
guages of  the  world. 

The  martial  words  and  spirit  of  the  hymn  made 
it  a  great  favorite  among  the  Christian  soldiers  dur- 
ing the  War  of  the  Rebellion.  The  first  time  the 
author  heard  it  sung  outside  of  his  own  denomina- 
tion was  in  1864,  on  a  visit  to  the  Army  of  the 
James. 

It  is  said  that  Dr.  Roberts,  of  Princeton,  on  a 
visit  to  Saratoga,  took  his  little  four-year-old  child 
to  church  with  him  one  Sunday  morning.  The 
hymn  given  out  was, — 

"  Stand  up!  —  stand  up  for  Jesus!" 

The  baby  happened  to  be  very  familiar  with  that 
hymn  and  began  at  once,  in  all  simplicity  and  inno- 
cence, to  sing  it  in  a  loud  and  joyful  voice,  at  first 
to  the  astonishment,  but  finally  to  the  admiration, 
of  the  congregation. 

The  author  once  wrote  to  a  friend:  "  There  is 
one  pleasure  I  have  enjoyed  in  hymns  which  is 
somewhat  personal  and  of  its  own  kind.  On  three 
different  occasions  —  once  in  the  General  Assembly 
at  Brooklyn,  and  once  at  a  meeting  of  the  A.  B.  F. 
M.,  and  once  at  a  mass-meeting  of  Sabbath-schools 
in  Illinois,  when  outward  and  inward  troubles  met 
and  I  was  in  great  and  sore  affliction  —  I  have  en- 

301 


Ilmmortal  Ibsmns  an&  ibeir  Stors 


tered  the  church  and  found  that  the  great  congrega- 
tion was  singing, — 

'  Stand  up  I  —  stand  up  for  Jesus!  ' 

The  feeling  of  comfort  was  inexpressible,  to  have 

my  own  hymn  thus  sung  to  me   by  those   unaware 

of    my    presence.       It    was  as    though    an    angel 
strengthened  me." 


^>tC7vO^»o 


ON  THE  RESURRECTION. 
On  Jus  head  were  iiia)iy  eroiuns. —  Revelation 

Xix.,    12. 


'Now  shout  in  icnivtrsal  song\ 
The  croivntd  Lord  of  all ' ' 


ON  THE  RESURRECTION. 


CORONATION.     C.  M. 


Oliver  Holden. 


-^.wt — -« 

-I F-U — 1- — t 1 — -p» — I 


EiiSg^^EEiEPEd 


iCiz 


:p=tz=t: 


m 


8— _| 1 1-— ^—   — • — s>- 


^33 


:«: 


d 


^lE^^^-^lMSiiiiii^i 


^^^E? 


?!==]: 


jicg— i^-^— sir— * — z^t-g-f- 


i=*=g^^^=p=i 


t — r 

All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name! 

Let  angels  prostrate  fall ; 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem, 

To  crown  him  Lord  of  all! 

Let  high-born  seraphs  tune  the  lyre, 

And,  as  they  tune  it,  fall 
Before  his  face  who  tunes  their  choir, 

And  crown  him  Lord  of  all ! 

Crown  him,  ye  morning  stars  of  light, 

Who  fixed  this  floating  ball ; 
Now  hail  the  Strength  of  Israel's  might, 

And  crown  him  Lord  of  all! 


307 


IFmmortal  Ibpmns  an^  tbeir  Stor^ 


Crown  him,  ye  martyrs  of  your  God, 

Who  from  his  altar  call ; 
Extol  the  stem  of  Jesse's  rod, 

And  crown  him  Lord  of  all! 

Ye  seed  of  Israel's  chosen  race, 

Ye  ransomed  of  the  fall, 
Hail  him  who  saves  you  by  his  grace, 

And  crown  him  Lord  of  all ! 

Hail  him,  ye  heirs  of  David's  line, 

Whom  David  Lord  did  call. 
The  God  incarnate,  Man  divine, 

And  crown  him  Lord  of  all ! 

Sinners,  whose  love  can  ne'er  forget 

The  wormwood  and  the  gall, 
Go  spread  your  trophies  at  his  feet, 

And  crown  him  Lord  of  all! 

Let  every  tribe  and  every  tongue 

That  bound  creation's  call 
Now  shout  in  universal  song, 

The  crowned  Lord  of  all ! 

— Edward  Perronet. 

Edward  Perronet,  the  author  of  this,  the  most  in- 
spiring hymn  in  the  English  language,  was  a  close 
friend  of  the  Wesleys,  and  shared  with  them  their 
hardships  and  their  triumphs.  "  Mr.  Perronet," 
says  Charles  Wesley,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,    "  joins 

308 


Hmmortal  "ff^v^mns  an&  tbcir  Stor^ 

in  hearty  love  and  thanks  for  your  kind  concern  for 
him.  He  grows  apace,  is  bold  as  a  lion,  and  begins 
to  speak  in  this  Name  to  the  hearts  of  sinners. ' ' 
A  proof  of  his  boldness  and  meekness  in  the  service 
of  his  Divine  Master  is  recorded  by  Mr.  Wesley. 
"  It  was  past  eight,"  writes  that  singing  evangelist, 
"  when  we  came  to  Penkridge.  We  were  hardly 
set  down  when  the  sons  of  Belial  beset  the  house, 
and  beat  at  the  door.  I  ordered  it  to  be  set  open, 
and  immediately  they  filled  the  house.  I  sat  still 
in  the  midst  of  them  for  half  an  hour.  Edward 
Perronet  I  was  a  little  concerned  for,  lest  such 
rough  treatment  at  his  first  setting  out  should 
daunt  him ;  but  he  abounded  in  valor,  and  was  for 
reasoning  with  the  wild  beasts  before  they  had 
spent  any  of  their  violence.  He  got  a  deal  of  abuse 
thereby,  and  not  a  little  dirt,  both  of  which  he  took 
very  patiently. ' ' 

The  young  poet  kept  up  this  cheerful  spirit  de- 
spite all  hardships;  for,  three  years  later,  Charles 
Wesley  put  another  jotting  in  his  note-book  concern- 
ing the  now  world-renowned  author  of  "  Corona- 
tion."  He  says:  "  I  set  out  for  London  with  my 
brother  and  Ned  Perronet.  We  were  in  perils  of 
robbers,  who  were  abroad,  and  had  robbed  many 
the  night  before.  We  commended  ourselves  to 
God,  and  rode  over  the  heath  singing."  What  a 
trio  that  was  on  horseback  that  morning!  John 
Wesley,    Charles   Wesley,  and     Edward    Perronet! 

309 


Immortal  fb^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 


How  they  have  dispersed  robber  doubts,  and  fears, 
and  sorrows,  by  their  glad  songs,  in  every  land ! 

Dr.  Belcher  relates  that  John  Wesley  had  long 
been  desirous  of  hearing  Edward  Perronet  preach ; 
and  the  latter,  aware  of  it,  was  as  resolutely  de- 
termined that  he  should  not,  and  therefore  studied 
to  avoid  every  occasion  that  would  lead  to  it.  Mr. 
Wesley  was  preaching  in  London  one  evening,  and, 
seeing  Mr.  Perronet  in  the  chapel,  announced,  with- 
out asking  his  consent,  that  he  would  preach  there 
the  next  morning  at  five  o'clock.  Mr.  Perronet 
had  too  much  respect  for  the  congregation  to  dis- 
turb their  peace  by  a  public  remonstrance,  and  too 
much  regard  for  Mr.  Wesley  entirely  to  resist  his 
bidding.  The  night  passed  over.  Mr.  Perronet 
ascended  the  pulpit  under  the  impression  that  ]\Ir. 
Wesley  would  be  secreted  in  some  corner  of  the 
chapel,  if  he  did  not  show  himself  publicly,  and, 
after  singing  and  prayer,  informed  the  congregation 
that  he  appeared  before  them  contrary  to  his  own 
wish ;  that  he  had  never  been  once  asked,  much  less 
his  consent  gained,  to  preach ;  that  he  had  done  vio- 
lence to  his  feelings  to  show  his  respect  for  Mr. 
Wesley;  and,  now  that  he  had  been  compelled  to 
occupy  the  place  in  which  he  stood,  weak  and  inade- 
quate as  he  was  for  the  work  assigned  him,  he 
would  pledge  himself  to  furnish  them  with  the  best 
sermon  that  ever  had  been  delivered.  Opening  the 
Bible,  he  proceeded  to  read  our  Lord's  Sermon  on 

310 


Hmmortal  Ibi^mns  an^  tbefr  Stor^ 


the  Mount,  which  he  concluded  without  a  single 
word  of  his  own  by  way  of  note  or  comment.  He 
closed  the  service  with  singing  and  prayer.  Dr. 
Belcher  declares  that  no  imitator  has  been  able  to 
produce  equal  effect. 

Mr.  Perronet  wrote  the  hymn  which  earned  him 
immortality  in  1779,  ^^^  it  was  first  published  in 
the  Gospel  Magazine.  Probably  no  hymn  ever  writ- 
ten is  so  universally  sung  to-day. 

Many  years  ago  a  Methodist  local  preacher  named 
William  Dawson,  a  farmer,  who  was  an  original  gen- 
ius and  a  very  striking  and  popular  speaker,  was 
preaching  in  London  on  the  divine  offices  of  Christ. 
After  setting  him  forth  as  the  great  Teacher  and 
Priest,  he  showed  him  in  his  glory  as  the  King  of 
saints.  He  proclaimed  him  as  King  in  his  own 
right,  and  then  proceeded  to  the  coronation.  His 
ideas  were  borrowed  from  scenes  familiar  to  his 
hearers.  He  graphically  portrayed  the  marshalling 
of  the  immense  procession.  Then  it  moved  towards 
the  grand  Temple  to  place  the  insignia  of  royalty 
upon  the  King  of  the  universe.  So  vividly  was  all 
this  depicted,  that  those  who  listened  thought  they 
were  gazing  upon  a  long  line  of  patriarchs,  kings, 
prophets,  apostles,  martyrs,  and  confessors  of  every 
age  and  clime.  They  saw  the  great  Temple  filled; 
and  the  grand  and  solemn  act  of  coronation  was 
about  to  be  performed.  By  this  time  the  congrega- 
tion was  wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  excite- 

3" 


•ffmrnortal  Ib^mns  an&  tbeir  Stor^ 


ment,  and  while  expecting  to  hear  the  pealing  an- 
them rise  from  the  vast  assembly  upon  which  they 
seemed  to  gaze,  the  preacher  lifted  up  his  voice  and 
sang,— 

"  All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name! 
Let  angels  prostrate  fall ; 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem, 
To  crown  him  Lord  of  all!  " 

The  effect  was  overwhelming.  The  crowd  sprang 
to  their  feet,  and  sang  the  hymn  with  a  feeling  and 
a  power  which  seemed  to  swell  higher  and  higher 
at  every  verse.  "  It  was,"  says  Rev.  S.  W.  Chris- 
tophers, who  relates  the  incident,  "  a  jubilant  mul- 
titude paying  harmonious  homage  to  their  Sovereign 
Lord  and  Saviour. ' ' 

Rev.  E.  P.  Scott,  while  a  missionary  in  India, 
one  day  on  the  street  of  a  village  met  a  very  strange- 
looking  native  who  proved  to  be  from  an  interior 
tribe  of  warlike  mountaineers  that  had  never  heard 
the  Gospel.  The  missionary  at  once  prepared  to 
visit  this  wild  tribe,  taking  with  him,  among  other 
things,  his  violin.  His  friends  urged  that  he  was 
exposing  himself  to  needless  peril,  but  his  reply 
was,  "I  must  carry  Jesus  to  them."  After  two 
days  of  travel,  he  was  suddenly  confronted  by  a  war 
party  of  the  tribe  which  he  sought.  They  had  been 
lying  in  ambush  and  sprang  out  menacingly  in  his 

312 


Hmmortal  ll^^mns  anD  tbeir  Stor\> 

path,  pointing  their  spears  at  his  heart.  Expecting 
nothing  but  instant  death,  he  drew  out  his  violin, 
shut  his  eyes,  and  commenced  to  play  and  sing, — 

"  All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name!" 

When  he  reached  the  verse,  beginning, — 

"  Let  every  tribe  and  every  tongue," 

he  opened  his  eyes  and  found  the  wild  children  of 
the  forest  on  their  knees  at  his  feet.  It  was  the  be- 
ginning of  a  residence  of  over  two  years,  and  the 
entire  tribe  were  won  to  Christ. 

We  can  scarcely  conceive  a  better  hymn  than  this 
to  sing  in  heaven,  when  all  the  ransomed  throng 
are  gathered  to  do  honor  to  our  Divine  Lord. 


313 


Date  Due 


La. 


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MP  ]  ''"^"^ 


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M- 


025  6552 


mm 


